


Scripted

by meetmeatthecoda



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Apraxia of Speech, Depression, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Lizzington - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-03-04 05:31:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13357527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meetmeatthecoda/pseuds/meetmeatthecoda
Summary: AU after 5.08, no Tom, Agnes, or daddygate. Lizzington. Inspired by Liz writing on the clipboard in the winter finale. Liz wakes from her coma and is diagnosed with apraxia of speech; she can understand speech but she has trouble speaking herself. Adjusting to her newly silent life proves difficult for her and her AOS and depression drive her into Red's arms. How will they cope?





	Scripted

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all! This fic is definitely something new for me, in a lot of different ways, and it was certainly a challenge to write but I really hope you guys enjoy it. I'm excited to share it with you :D As always, I would love any feedback you guys feel inclined to give me. I have an ending (Part 2) vaguely outlined but, if I write it at all, it won’t be for a while. So, for now, here is Part 1 of Scripted! :) Enjoy! <3

Liz taps her fingers on her thighs, frowning at the black and red discs arranged on the board in front of her. 

“Face it, Lizzie, you’re fighting a losing battle. Just surrender now and I promise I won’t gloat too much.”

Red smirks at her from his seat next to her hospital bed, arms crossed and leaning back in his chair confidently, taunting her.

She holds up her hand without looking away from the board, signaling that he should stop talking. He chuckles lowly at that but falls silent. Liz checks the board over once more and, sure of her move, nods to herself. She leans forward and picks up one of her red checker pieces, skipping it over three of Red’s black pieces in quick succession, her red piece ending up on the row of squares closest to him, a king. 

Red’s mouth falls open in surprise and he leans forward to glare comically at the board. Liz picks up his stolen black pieces proudly, grinning, mouth open in a silent laugh. 

Silent. 

Red’s voice has been the only one sounding in her hospital room since she woke up a month ago. 

Things haven’t been going well.

She’s been poked and prodded by doctors since the moment Red had suddenly remembered that she needed medical attention and stopped kissing her hands long enough to push the call button. 

(She still gets flutters in her stomach when she thinks about the sensation of Red’s lips on her fingers.)

The doctors had run about the room, excited and bursting with questions for her. Apparently, she’s the longest coma patient they’ve had that’s actually woken up. 

She’s tries not to think about that. 

They’d run bloodwork and taken samples, tested her strength and brought in physical therapists. She’s been working daily with a kind, older woman to build up her muscles again. They spent the first two weeks doing upper body and arm exercises in bed, which was endlessly frustrating for Liz, who felt as though she should be able to stand up and walk right out of the hospital. Her physical therapist assured her she was doing remarkably well and that she shouldn’t try to push herself. 

Her physical strength is one thing, something that Liz is fairly confident she can regain with a little patience. But her physical condition is not the only thing under scrutiny.

She is having trouble speaking.

It was an odd thing. After it was determined that she could breathe on her own and the ventilator was removed, the doctors had officially greeted her and asked her how she was feeling. She had opened her mouth to speak, knowing what she wanted to say (something completely stupid like “fine, thanks, how are you?”), and expected her voice to be a little worse for wear, scratchy and hoarse (after all, it’s been ten months since she last spoke), but she hadn’t expected it to not come out at all. 

She couldn’t talk. 

Liz tried desperately to make her mouth form the words she wanted to say but her lips and tongue simply couldn’t obey her brain. She had worked her mouth repeatedly but couldn’t make herself say anything.

It was terrifying.

She had quickly started to panic and Red had seen that she was having a problem before the doctors did, rushing to her side, and crouching over her, speaking quickly, urgently – 

“Lizzie? Sweetheart, what’s wrong? Are you alright, what’s the matter? Doctor, what’s happening, she can’t –”

The doctor was baffled at first but quickly jumped into action, calling a nurse in to give Liz a mild sedative, and promising Red that he would contact a speech therapist. 

After many more tests and unsuccessful attempts to speak, Liz was diagnosed with apraxia of speech. She had listened mutely as the speech therapist had quietly explained it, clutching Red’s hand tightly as a few tears escaped her eyes and rolled down her face. 

The condition is rare and still a little mysterious but it can sometimes occur after traumatic brain injuries like Liz’s. Her speech therapist has only seen a handful of cases but she assured Liz and Red that it is completely treatable and, in most cases, clears up suddenly on its own. But it is important to attend speech therapy and, for the time being, practice some forms of non-verbal communication. She and the other doctors had suggested sign language and left a packet containing the basics on her nightstand, making sure to leave the neat diagram of the alphabet out on top. They were eager for her to start.

She had angrily shoved the diagram back in the folder. 

For some reason, Liz abhors the thought of learning sign language. It’s perfectly reasonable, of course, and it would help significantly with communication but she just can’t make herself open the folder and look. She thinks maybe it’s because it would feel like defeat. It’s only meant to be a temporary solution until she can speak again but Liz simply can’t stomach the idea. Learning a completely new language? No, she can’t. Not when she feels like she does.

(Small and drained and weak.)

No, Liz favors a pen and paper. She doesn’t have to learn any new skills to just write words on paper and Liz is simply too tired to learn new skills. 

(She’s not sure how she can be so tried when she just slept for ten months but somehow, she is constantly exhausted.)

Liz feels strangely shy around her doctors, sometimes feeling oddly as though she’s still sleeping and the world is moving around her, taking no notice of her lying there in silence. She’s not sure whether she prefers it or not. They say she just needs to adjust to things but she’s not so sure. She talks only to Red via pen and paper, telling him what she would like to say to the doctors and he graciously acts as intermediary between them, Liz preferring not to be the subject of their clinical gazes and blunt words.

Red has, in fact, been wonderful.

Red.

Liz looks at him now, still examining the checkers board, scowling and muttering to himself as he tries to figure out where he went wrong, and smiles.

He has been here for every step of her slow recovery, spending the days keeping her company with books and games and even spending the nights on a cot in her room. Liz gets the feeling that ten months ago, before her accident and her coma and her general life upheaval, she would have wanted Red to leave her be. She would have asked politely (hopefully) for some space, urging him to wait for her to call before coming back to visit her.

(She’s honestly not sure if she would have called at all.)

But that’s how she would have felt ten months ago. Somehow, she feels very different now. Perhaps all that sleep gave her mind time to absorb and process the whirlwind that her life has been for the past four years before her coma. She has somehow been married, divorced, married, annulled, married, and windowed in what felt like very quick succession. 

(Tom is gone now though and though she feels a kind of calm sadness about it, she’s moved on and she doesn’t want to dwell on it. That’s that.) 

Just about every aspect of her life had been turned upside down before her accident and she didn’t know which way was up. But throughout the whole process, there was Red. Always Red. And now she can see that he’s always been here for her, even at her worst times.

So, the coma seems to have helped in one respect at least.

Red was the first thing she heard when she regained consciousness and, as she blinked blearily, the first thing she saw when she turned her head. 

(He was also the first thing she touched in ten months, her hand gently nudging his shoulder and his hand grasping, pressing her fingers desperately to his face, but that’s another thing she tries not to think about too hard.)

Red has been here from what feels like the very beginning and she honestly doesn’t want anything different. She wants him here with her, by her side, supporting her as he has always done, and while that should feel like a complete about-face for her, it doesn’t. 

It feels like she is finally seeing straight. 

She just wishes it hadn’t taken a year-long coma to get her there. 

“Lizzie?”

Red is here now, of course, having finally accepted his defeat at checkers, and is peering at her, a little concerned at her prolonged silence. She blinks to clear her mind and smiles at him reassuringly, patting his hand where it lays next to hers on the side of her bed. 

He is never far from her. 

He smiles back, the concern gone now that she’s here in the present again. 

“Congratulations, you’ve won,” he sighs, pretending to be put out. She giggles. For some reason, non-language noises can still usually come naturally to her, quiet laughs, sighs, hums, and coughs. The therapist assures her that it’s normal and that she should use these things to gently warm up her vocal chords and get used to speaking again.

(Liz hasn’t been doing that.)

Red touches her hand gently. “Would you like to play again?” he asks softly.

She shakes her head no, squeezing his hand. He nods and picks up the board, tipping the checker pieces carefully back into their box.

“Perhaps tomorrow,” he says, smiling kindly at her, putting the lid on the box and placing it in the small pile in the corner where he’s amassed all their board games. It’s quite a collection at this point. “Would you like me to read to you?”

Tired of head nods and shakes, Liz picks up the notebook and pen that are always within reach on her nightstand, conveniently covering up the folder of ASL materials. 

_I’m tired._

She scrawls it on the paper and tilts it towards Red, whose eyes scan the paper to read.

“All right, then,” he says easily. “A nap it is.” 

He busies himself needlessly straightening up the room and pulling the curtains on her windows. 

It’s still light outside.

He pulls his cot towards her bed, where they both like it, so he is within reach while she sleeps. They’ve taken to holding hands while they sleep.

“Perhaps when you wake up we can look at the ASL alphabet together?” he suggests tentatively.

He knows of her reluctance to begin learning but he doesn’t know why she’s so averse to the idea. 

Liz isn’t completely sure she knows either. 

(But she’s seen him practicing the signs quietly in the corner when he thinks she’s asleep.)

She doesn’t answer, simply turns away from him and closes her eyes as he clicks off her bedside lamp, pretending she’s too tired to answer.

Besides, what does it matter? 

She doesn’t care.

* * *

“Dembe said he was sad to miss you but he was glad you were resting. I told him that we were talking about a new Chinese checkers board and I asked him to go pick one up for us. He said he didn’t mind but I didn’t quite believe him so I told him to pick up something for himself at the same time. I wonder what he decided on. I’ll have to ask him when he gets back.”

Liz listens as Red tells her of Dembe’s latest visit, one that she had napped right through. She hadn’t meant to, of course, but she can’t help but feel a little relieved. For some reason, she’d rather hear Red talk about Dembe’s visit than talk to Dembe in person. She feels just as uncomfortable around Dembe as she does her doctors and anyone but Red, for that matter. She’d rather hear about things second-hand. But she still likes to talk to Red.

She starts to write a response to him in her notebook.

_I’m sure Dembe doesn’t mind, you know how loyal he is to you and –_

“He’s been quite a life saver these past few months, you know, bringing me things and running errands so I didn’t have to leave you. He’s been so wonderful. He deserves a fabulous vacation soon, certainly.”

Liz purses her lips but abandons her previous sentence to start a new one, trying to follow Red’s train of thought as he speaks.

_Please thank Dembe for me, I haven’t had the chance yet. You’ll have to –_

“And his daughter sent flowers as well, a few months ago, beautiful sunflowers to brighten up the room, she said. Isabella is a wonderful girl, beautiful and bright, with a little one of her own now. She grew so fast, I swear.”

Liz frowns, getting annoyed now. How is she supposed to keep up with Red with he goes from topic to topic so quickly? She can’t just interject her contribution verbally into the conversation as she would have normally, she has to write what she wants to say, and it would be a lot easier to keep up if he would just _slow down –_

_I’ve heard a lot about Isabella from you and Dembe. It’s a shame I’ve never met her. What did you say her daughter’s name is –_

“Maybe I should send them all on vacation, what do you think, Lizzie? Isabella can take some time off work and her little one would love the beach, I’m sure of it –”

Liz slaps her hand against her bed tray in frustration, unable to stand it any longer. Red jumps a little in his chair, not expecting the noise, and looks at her, startled. 

“Lizzie? What’s wrong, are you in pain?” 

He takes her hand quickly, an instinctive move, it seems, and only then notices the red pen she’s holding. 

“Oh,” he murmurs. “Were you writing something? I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

He gently pulls her abandoned notebook closer to him and peers at it. She watches his eyes scan over the paper, taking in her hastily written sentences, each one unfinished, her handwriting getting sloppier as it descends the paper, hurried but still unable to keep up with him.

Red’s eyes widen as he understands and he pushes the notebook aside, his hands going back to hold hers, trying to sooth her.

“Oh, Lizzie, I’m so sorry, sweetheart, I thought you were just listening, I didn’t know…”

She sees the obvious sympathy in his eyes as he presses a kiss to her hand and suddenly her throat tightens and her eyes fill up with tears. She’s been so emotional since she woke up, crying at the drop of hat, constantly feeling sorry for herself. The doctors have tried to assure her that it’s completely normal, she’s been through a lot, after all, but it doesn’t help. 

She just feels so _weak._

Red sees her tears and his face crumples, suffering right along with her as he has been this whole time and that makes her cry even harder.

“No, no, Lizzie, don’t cry. It’s alright, it’ll be okay. We’ll figure this out, we just need to get adjusted to things, that’s all. And it’s my fault anyway, Lizzie, I’ll talk slower, I promise.”

She shakes her head as he pulls her in for a hug, a common occurrence these days, his arms and scent surrounding her with wonderful familiarity. Red has been so patient with all of this, with her, and she’s the one that can’t keep herself together for more than five minutes at a time. She wishes she could tell him that but, even if she took the time to write it down, he would vehemently deny it and give her reassurances she doesn’t deserve so she just hugs him, reveling in his warmth, listening to his deep voice as he whispers to her, letting him comfort her.

“I’m sorry, Lizzie, I wasn’t thinking. When you were asleep, I just talked endlessly because I knew you wouldn’t answer. It seems I’ve got to kick that habit now that you’re awake and I couldn’t be more grateful, Lizzie. I’m so happy you’re awake. I just have to slow down because of course you have things to say, Lizzie, and you need a little extra time to contribute and there’s nothing wrong with that. Don’t worry, Lizzie, we’ll get the hang of things soon…”

Liz’s heart aches at the thought of Red talking to her nonstop while she was in her coma, desperate to keep her alive somehow, so afraid she wouldn’t wake up. She squeezes him as hard as she can with her arms, in a loop around his broad shoulders, feeling so grateful for him. 

(She doesn’t know how he made it through those long months alone. She will never ask him.)

Liz feels herself calming down as Red rubs her back gently and, after a long moment, she pulls away reluctantly. Red lets her go and plucks a tissue out of the box on her nightstand, offering it to her kindly. She dabs at her eyes and blows her nose, a little embarrassed, but Red just smiles adoringly at her. She tosses her used tissue in the trash and picks up her pen to scrawl two words on her notebook.

_Thank you._

“Oh, of course, Lizzie, don’t be silly.” Red murmurs, rubbing her arm tenderly.

Liz smiles at him and blinks lazily, realizing she is suddenly exhausted. 

“That’s enough drama for one day. How about a nap?” Red says teasingly. His attempt at lightness helps and she nods. A nap sounds wonderful.

Red drags his cot over to her bedside and switches off her bedside lamp, quickly getting comfortable as she turns on her side to face him. 

“Get some rest, Lizzie,” he murmurs quietly. 

Liz stretches her arm out the short distance to his cot and finds his hand in the darkness, her eyes already drooping closed. 

They’ll figure it out. 

Somehow.

* * *

Liz bites her lip, focusing intensely on the notebook on her bed tray and the red pen in her hand, trying to form a flawless lowercase “a” between the lines of the paper, her hand still a little weak and unsteady.

She is practicing. 

She doesn’t really want to, her writing is perfectly legible, as Red has assured her, but he doesn’t like to see her apathetic and staring off into space like she prefers to. Red and her doctors like to see her putting her mind to something when she’s not slowly regaining strength in her limbs. Since she’d rather not attract more unwanted attention from them, she has to do something. 

And Liz refuses to learn ASL.

It’s so much easier to practice her handwriting instead. She can recall the skills easily and she can practice mindlessly enough while still distracting herself from the torrent of her thoughts. It’s _easy._ And some clarity in her letters wouldn’t hurt. 

(Red sometimes squints at her k’s.)

Liz peers at the neat row of a’s marching across one line of notebook paper and nods to herself. Good enough. She moves to the next line and, with a small sigh, starts on b’s.

As she writes, she listens idly to Red’s voice, coming to her from outside her room in the hallway of the hospital, talking to Dembe on the phone. 

“No, I didn’t say that…I’m not sure why you think I would…No, don’t answer that…Anyway, it doesn’t matter, they’re pleased with her. When are you getting back?”

Liz takes a break from her b’s, shaking out her hand, sore already, and looks up at Red through the open blinds on her hallway window. Amid his leisurely pacing up and down the hallway in front of her room, he seems to feel her gaze on him and turns around, meeting her eyes through the window. Liz feels a little thrill go through her at the sudden attention and she blushes a little. Red’s gaze softens as he looks at her. He smiles and gives a little wave and she can’t help but grin and wiggle her fingers back.

He’s sweet.

“Yes, maybe you should…I don’t think we need that, no…Well, what did they say?”

Liz smiles to herself and goes back to her b’s, listening to the pleasant rumble of Red’s voice as she writes. 

She has moved on to c’s by the time he comes back, steadily making progress, but feeling no real sense of achievement, just a bland satisfaction at successfully passing the time. And having something to show Red. 

She’s missed him.

He was only out in the hallway for half an hour at most and she could see and hear him the whole time but, nonetheless, Liz feels better, lighter, happier when he walks back in the room, here and present with her.

“I’m sorry that took so long, Lizzie. Dembe and I were catching up.”

Red takes a seat by her side and waits patiently while she writes a response in the margin of her practice page.

(He’s gotten a lot better at waiting.)

_That’s alright. Any interesting news to share?_

“Well, he did say that –” Red starts to say but he stops short when he sees the lines of letters occupying the majority of her page. “Lizzie, you’ve been practicing?” he exclaims, for some reason incredibly excited by this.

Liz can’t help but return his wide smile. She nods and he lets out a joyous laugh, taking her hand, pen and all, to squeeze it.

“Lizzie, that’s wonderful! Good for you, I’m so proud of you!”

His words fill her with what seems like a disproportionate amount of happiness, like sunshine suddenly illuminating a dim room. She smiles again and, with a renewed sense of vigor, starts work on her d’s, listening contentedly as he chatters animatedly about his conversation with Dembe.

She’s happy that he’s happy.

* * *

Liz taps her fingers anxiously on the bed next to her thighs, looking out her window into the hallway outside, biting her lip and watching as Red talks to her lead doctor. 

They are discussing her future.

Well, not her future so much as her immediate plans. If there’s anything Liz has learned through this ordeal, it’s that the future is unpredictable. Immediate plans, however, can be arranged. And they say Liz is ready to leave the hospital. 

She is nervous. 

She would appreciate a change of scenery, given that this room is all she’s known for the last year of her life. Granted she was asleep for the bigger portion of it but it is remarkable how boring the same four walls can become, especially when confined to a bed. 

But Liz is still more afraid than excited to leave. She supposes she would be more enthusiastic if she knew where she’s going.

Liz watches as Red shakes his head and gestures wildly, hands flitting about as they try to illustrate his point to the doctor, whose lips are pursed in disapproval. Liz furrows her brow. What are they arguing about? She would be able to hear them but the doctor had closed the door behind him on the way out so all she can see is their mouths moving. 

It’s one of the many frustrating things she’s dealt with recently. 

Liz doesn’t mind Red talking to the doctors in her place, in fact she prefers it, and she trusts him to arrange what’s best for her but she’d feel a lot more at ease if she could hear exactly what changes they’re discussing, as it will affect her most directly. If she could just _hear what they’re saying –_

Liz sighs, wishing she could stand up and pace. She could, of course, she’s made wonderful physical progress after all and, if she could get up and pace, then she could just as easily open the door and listen in on their conversation. But she’s already done her physical therapy for the day and she’s tired. If Red would just come back in and tell her what’s going on then she could sleep peacefully. He hasn’t told her anything about what he’s arranged with the doctors. She knows he had to give up her apartment a few months into her coma and he had Dembe carefully pack up all her belongings and place them in a storage unit. 

She was very glad to hear that. 

She is still worried though. Not about the apartment or her possessions, of course, she trusts Red more than enough to organize all that, but it worries her because that means she has no home to go to once she is released. She has no apartment and it will take time to look for one and she certainly hasn’t had the presence of mind recently to start that process. She supposes she could stay in a hotel while she looks but she also hasn’t given a thought to her financial situation. After all, she hasn’t seen a bank statement for a year. She doesn’t know if she can even afford an apartment.

(Red had completely floored her when he assured her that all her hospital costs had been taken care of. Liz can’t even fathom what that amount had come to after ten months of life support and she’d quite simply broken down into tears when Red told her she didn’t owe a dime. She knew right then that she would, quite literally, never be able to repay his generosity, even if she dedicated the rest of her life to it. The thought puts a strange feeling in her chest.)

But the fact remains that Liz knows frighteningly little about how she would fair if she were tossed out of the hospital and excepted to support herself. This whole process has moved very fast and it would be a very rough re-entry into the real world, so different from this little haven Red has created for her in this hospital room. 

She truly doesn’t know what she’ll do.

She knows what she wants though. 

Red.

She wants to stay with Red.

She knows that’s horribly pathetic and needy but she can’t help it. Red has been with her every second since she’s woken up and, by all accounts, every second since she fell asleep. She’s grown very attached to his presence, his support, his voice, his laugh, his smile during her recovery.

She can’t imagine being without him. The thought fills her with a horrible ache.

Yes, she wants to stay with him. She wonders if he’ll want that. It makes her strangely panicky to think of what he’ll say. 

Liz glances back at the window to see the doctor frowning, shaking his head and trying to interrupt Red, while Red’s mouth moves as he firmly talks over him. Liz can’t suppress a smirk. 

This doctor obviously doesn’t know who he’s dealing with. 

Liz’s smile fades as her distracted mind goes back to her current predicament: how does she ask Red if she can stay with him? With a start, she sees that it looks like he and the doctor are finishing up so she’d better think of something. 

Quickly.

She snatches her notebook and pen off her nightstand and flips to a blank page. She taps her pen against her bed tray in a frantic rhythm that only serves to annoy her. She sighs, frustrated. There’s no use sitting here agonizing over it. She’d better just try writing something. She puts pen to paper.

_Hey, Red, do you think –_

No, too casual.

She scratches it out. 

_Raymond, would you consider allowing me –_

Too formal.

Scratch. 

_Red, may I come and stay with you when I am released?_

Ugh, that’s too…something.

Why is this so difficult?

Liz glances up at the window once again to see the doctor, his head hung in something that looks like defeat and Red, wearing an expression that looks curiously like success. 

Red has won.

Liz’s heart skips a beat in her chest. She watches as the doctor turns and wanders down the hallway dejectedly, not sparing a glance towards her room, while Red nods triumphantly, looking very happy with himself, and starts towards her door. 

Liz panics at the sight and quickly scratches out her last failed sentence. She just manages to flip to a clean page in her notebook to hide all evidence of her struggle when the door opens and Red bursts in, excited.

“Lizzie! Oh, good, you’re awake, I know that took quite a while but your doctor needed some convincing. Not to worry, I got him to see our side of it and everything is sorted out. I have such plans, everything will be fine, Dembe is seeing to the arrangements now, so things will be ready within a day or two and – Lizzie? Is something wrong?”

She has been staring at him blankly, listening to his vague statements, and getting progressively more worried the less specific he is. What has he planned for her?

“Lizzie?”

He is still waiting for some sort of answer from her. Liz blinks, exhaling shakily, and turns to her notebook. Red sees her start to write and comes to her side to read, concerned. 

_I don’t understand – where will I go?_

Liz tilts the notebook hesitantly towards Red and watches anxiously as his eyes scan the paper.

“Oh, Lizzie, I’m sorry, I thought you knew,” he sits on the edge of her bed and takes her hand carefully. “You’ll be coming with me, of course. I have a nice house all picked out, I think you’ll love it, it’s on a beautiful lake, the perfect place to continue your recuperation. It’s not too big but also not too small. Just right, I think, but we’ll see if you agree. And I’ve convinced your doctors not to send any nurses with you, you don’t need them, you’re able to function independently now and, at any rate, I’ll be right there if you need something. It will be –” 

Red stops talking suddenly, looking almost frightened as he takes in her expression. 

“That is, only if you want to, Lizzie. Do you…I just assumed…Do you _want_ to stay with me?” 

The words are curiously timid and Liz marvels at them. She never thought Raymond Reddington could be _shy._

What an odd sight.

(It makes her want to hold him.)

Red continues to stare at Liz, obviously waiting on tender hooks for an answer. Liz simply looks back at him affectionately before jumping suddenly, realizing she has just been staring stupidly at him with her mouth open, contemplating how perfectly wonderful his plans sound. How did he know exactly what she wanted?

(She supposes she shouldn’t be surprised. Red has always been good at reading her. Even when she can’t read herself.)

Liz scrambles for her pen, in a hurry to reassure him, and quickly scrawls in her notebook, her words big and off center in her haste.

_Yes, of course! Honestly, that’s exactly what I was hoping for!_

“Oh, good,” Red gasps upon reading her words, sounding distinctly relieved. “I didn’t even realize we hadn’t discussed it, I just went ahead and made plans, that was very presumptuous of me, Lizzie, I’m so sorry –”

_I just didn’t know what you had in mind and I didn’t know how to ask you but really, I don’t know what I’d do or where I’d go, so thank you and I just –_

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Liz marvels at the fact that they can be awkwardly talking over one another when Red is speaking and she is writing and Red seems to realize it at the same time she does, giving up on his sentence with a breathy chuckle and Liz stops writing just to listen to the sound.

They look at each other fondly for a moment, staring into each other’s eyes, and Liz feels inexplicably grateful for Red.

Where would she be without him?

(She doesn’t want to know.)

She touches the back of his hand gently.

“It’s truly my pleasure, Lizzie,” he murmurs with a gentle smile and she tries not to cry at the genuine feeling in his voice. 

She’s staying with him.

She’ll be alright.

* * *

“Mr. Kershaw, I may speak to you for a moment please?”

Red looks up, a little startled, from Lizzie’s notebook where they are playing tic-tac-toe while waiting for Dembe to arrive. It will be his last visit before the move and he’s going to update Red on all the preparations. Red is on pins and needles waiting for him. He wants everything to be absolutely perfect. 

(Just as Lizzie deserves.)

But first, apparently, Lizzie’s doctor wants to talk to him.

Hm.

“Certainly, Dr. Lauflan. What is it?” Red replies, curious. Lizzie’s doctor generally doesn’t make a habit of speaking to them more than strictly necessary. He’s never been particularly in favor of Red and Liz’s undisclosed situation, as Red made sure to keep the nature of their relationship fairly ambiguous, and the good doctor resents not being privy to all the details. But as far as Red is concerned, Dr. Lauflin should be interested only in Lizzie’s health and not why Red has barely left her bedside since she was brought in a year ago. Regardless, Red’s not sure whether the doctor’s unsociable behavior is a result of nothing to say since Lizzie has stabilized or out of general disapproval of their current situation. 

Red’s also not sure if he cares.

He looks back at the doctor expectantly, who hesitates.

“Perhaps we could speak outside in the hall,” he says bluntly. Red blinks in surprise. 

Interesting. 

Red glances at Lizzie, wanting to make sure she doesn’t have a problem with him and her doctor talking out of her earshot when the only thing they could possibly being discussing is her. She hasn’t minded lately. In fact, she has been surprisingly disinterested in her doctor’s input after he relayed her initial test results after she woke. She has encouraged Red to speak to him in her place, perhaps feeling uncomfortable with not being able to verbalize her questions and comments. Red doesn’t see a problem with this, after all, his only goal is to assist Lizzie in any way he can, and he takes Lizzie’s reliance on him in this manner as a display of trust. That’s something they had frighteningly little of before her accident and Red’s not about to turn around and ruin it now. 

(Besides, he’d die for her. In comparison, this is simple.)

Looking at her now, Red can see a slight pursing at the corners of her mouth, telling him she is vaguely annoyed that Dr. Lauflan is so obviously trying to leave her out of things but she gives a little shrug and nods at Red in permission. He touches her hand briefly in response before standing, stretching, and following Lizzie’s doctor out of the room. 

“Well?” Red murmurs, not unkindly, pulling Lizzie’s door shut as quietly as he can. 

“Mr. Kershaw, I feel I must speak,” Dr. Lauflan says, his eyes hard as he looks at Red through his dark-framed glasses. “I have tried to be understanding in regard to your and Ms. Keen’s…relationship. I have disregarded visiting hours, included you in every detail of her treatment despite the fact that you are not a blood relative, even consented to send her to live with you without any assistance from a nurse or in-house doctor, although you are unqualified non-medical personnel. I did all of this against my better judgement, in part because of your sizable donation to the hospital and upfront payment of medical costs, but also because I can see how beneficial you are to Ms. Keen’s health. But now, since she will soon be out of my care, I must speak freely. Do you understand, Mr. Kershaw?”

Red blinks, shocked. This is surely the most he has ever heard Dr. Lauflan speak at one time. And there is more to come?

“Of course, Doctor. I urge you to speak your mind. I was under the impression you have been doing that for the duration of Ms. Keen’s stay. Have I been mistaken?” Red raises an eyebrow sternly.

“No, of course not,” he says, bristling and shaking his head firmly. “I have been truthful and concise in every aspect of Ms. Keen’s treatment, according to my Hippocratic Oath, which I take very seriously. I now speak in matters of advice, not strictly medical diagnosis. I could let you leave without saying what I’d like to say and still feel that I treated Ms. Keen to the best of my ability but I’m not sure my conscience would be at ease.”

“Well then, by all means, tell me what’s on your mind, Doctor,” says Red primly, getting a little annoyed with this beating around the bush.

Dr. Lauflan looks at him in silence for a moment before taking a deep breath and opening his mouth once again. 

“Ms. Keen has made a remarkable recovery over the past several weeks. To be sure, I’ve never seen anything quite like it. I stand by my belief that, against all odds, she will make a full physical recovery. However, it is not her physique that I am concerned for. She is not as mentally engaged as I would like to see. She only communicates with you and she says little to me or her other doctors. I have a feeling that, away from the hospital, she will be more at risk of falling into serious depression. That is the main reason I would like her to attend therapy but you have vehemently refused.”

“Ms. Keen is not comfortable with that,” Red says stiffly, not willing to rehash an old argument simply for the doctor’s peace of mind. Lizzie has made it quite clear she doesn’t need to talk to a stranger about her problems. “Besides, she is coping just fine, considering all she has been through.”

“Of course, there is no doubt that she has endured considerable turmoil,” Dr. Lauflan agrees, a little impatiently. “But that brings me to other point: she must practice speaking, Mr. Kershaw. She has not spoken in my presence since awakening and I only see her write notes to you. It is my belief that she is too depressed to practice speaking or learn alternate methods of communication, which would at least keep her mind active, and she must be encouraged if she is to improve. If she does not try, she will not regain all of her previous speech abilities. If you continue to coddle her –”

“Excuse me?” Red interrupts, truly angry now. “ _Coddle her?_ Ms. Keen has been through awful trauma and I am willing to wait as long as it takes for her to be ready to make progress. I will not force her.”

“Sometimes force is necessary for improvement, Mr. Kershaw,” presses the doctor, desperately. “If you truly care for her, then you must insist that she speak.”

“Thank you for your valuable input, Doctor,” Red says abruptly, refusing to listen to any more. “But this conversation is over. Do not bring it up again.” 

Red turns away from the blustering doctor without waiting for a response and reenters Lizzie’s room, shutting the door firmly behind him. As he heads to his normal seat at Lizzie’s bedside, he sees her writing something in her notebook. She turns it toward him as soon as he sits down. 

_What did the doctor want?_

“Oh, nothing, sweetheart,” he says, working to let go of his anger. “He just wanted to go over some medical treatments for you. But it’s nothing for you to worry about,” he brushes some of her hair behind her ear and she smiles at him, easily mollified. “How about another game?”

Lizzie sets to work drawing up another neat tic-tac-toe board and Red glances through the window into the hallway. The doctor has gone, given up, good riddance, but Red notices Dembe standing in the hallway looking at him curiously through the window. How long has he been standing there? And how much of the doctor’s ridiculous diatribe did he hear?

Ah well. It was nothing Red wouldn’t have shared with him anyway. 

(There is not much Red won’t tell Dembe.) 

Red waves him in. 

As Dembe enters, Lizzie offers Red the notebook and he picks up his black pen, drawing a tiny x in the upper right corner, greeting Dembe at the same time. 

Lizzie will be fine, Red tells himself as Dembe takes a seat next to him. 

He’ll make sure of it.

* * *

“Are you ready, Lizzie?”

Today is the day. 

She’s finally leaving the hospital. 

And she’s scared. 

This room has been all she’s known for what has surely been the longest and most difficult period of her life. It’s been a both comfort and a prison at times but Liz is still nervous to see the outside world again.

After all, it’s been a _year._

But Liz is dressed in comfortable clothes, her favorite yoga pants and sweatshirt, kindly retrieved from her storage unit by Dembe, and she has her notebook in her hand and her pen stuck in her ponytail and Red is waiting for her. 

“Lizzie?”

Red is here. 

She can do this.

Liz looks at his encouraging smile and takes his proffered hand, using his solid strength to pull herself up off her hospital bed for the last time. 

She is still a little weak, even though she can walk just fine on her own, but she stumbles into Red nevertheless. He wraps his arms around her automatically, instinctively, and she takes a moment to rest there, her cheek pressed against his shoulder, and breathe in his scent. He hums contentedly, pleased with the impromptu embrace, and rubs her back.

(She never thought she’d be quite this comfortable in his arms. But, alas, she’s never been happier.)

“Ready?” he murmurs after a nice moment. 

Liz regretfully pulls back from him but takes his hand and holds onto it. She nods.

“All right, then. Let’s go,” Red says with a final excited smile.

He squeezes her hand and starts to walk, tugging her gently from the room. Liz stays close to his side as he leads her through the unfamiliar hospital hallways to the exit she’s never seen, politely greeting hospital staff and janitors as they pass. Liz watches, marveling at Red’s ability to befriend anyone, no matter their job or station. 

(Liz realizes then that Red has probably had many opportunities to develop solid relationships with them all over the past year, probably saw them every single day as he sat patiently by her side, waiting for her to open her eyes.

She presses closer to him at the thought.) 

And everyone who speaks to Red also has a bright smile and well wishes for Liz, happy to see her finally well enough to leave, their longest coma patient, awake at last. Liz smiles shyly at them all from Red’s side, clutching both his hand and arm for support. He tugs her along gently, looking back intermittently to check on her, always so attentive to her needs.

She squeezes his hand.

Before she knows it, they’re outside and there is Dembe, standing sentinel-like in front of the car waiting for them. His dark face breaks into a wide smile when he sees Liz walking with Red, his white teeth gleaming. As they come to a stop in front of him, Dembe speaks to her.

“Hello, Elizabeth. It is good to see you up and about.” 

He wraps his arms around her in a gentle, warm hug and Liz returns it with one arm, not wanting to let go of Red’s hand just yet. She tries not to tear up at the emotion being shown by the normally stoic Dembe, truly touched by his attention. 

Dembe pulls back, gives her a final smile, and opens the backseat car door for her. She thanks him with a nod of her head and slides in, forced to let go of Red’s hand, while Red claps Dembe on the arm and hurries around to the other side of the car to join her in the backseat, sliding in to sit beside her, both of them buckling in.

“Well done, Lizzie,” Red says to her softly, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She smiles at him in gratitude and scoots closer to his side, enjoying his warmth against her, taking his hand again.

(It feels right.)

And then they are off, Dembe driving them to their little house on a lake and Liz has done it. She left the hospital and she’s here and everything’s okay. It’s over. She gives a little sigh of relief.

Liz watches as Dembe guides the car gently through the streets of D.C., all the harried movement outside the window drawing her attention, and she turns to look. There are people walking, talking, going about their lives, moving quickly in between the tall, brightly-colored buildings, such a contrast to the year of darkness and sleeping and lying in bed that Liz has had. She blinks, trying to adjust and take it all in, but she finds herself over sensitized by the movement and color, so unlike her calm, still, little hospital room. The buildings seem to loom and tower over her, giving her a nasty sense of being trapped. She hurriedly turns away from the window and instead concentrates on Red’s thumb, brushing gently across her knuckles. 

His touch is grounding. 

As they leave the city about half an hour later, Liz takes a chance and looks out the window again, this time at the scenery. There are fewer cars and people this far outside the city, buildings and houses further apart, more open. There is green grass instead of pavement and blue sky is visible in the gaps between buildings. The sun is high in the sky, taking turns fading behind clouds only to burst out once again to brighten the landscape with its rays. 

The expanse of suburbs they are passing through would not have fazed Liz a year ago – in fact, it would have been a welcome break from the busy city – but right now, after such a long confinement to one room, the open air seems limitless and vast in a way that directly contrasts the claustrophobia of the city itself and Liz feels herself getting a little nauseous with fear. 

(First too small and now too big, what is _wrong_ with her?)

Just as she senses herself starting to panic, she feels Red rub her shoulder absentmindedly, gazing out his own window, evidently unaware of her inner turmoil and all of a sudden Liz realizes that it’s silly to feel overwhelmed by the outside world when she tucked safely in the backseat of a car with Red. 

(He won’t let her float away.)

She firmly turns away from the window, feeling something like relief, and focuses on his hand instead, still tenderly holding hers. She brings her other hand up to trace the knuckles and veins, concentrates on all the freckles and fine hairs scattered there, and feels herself begin to calm down. 

(He has beautiful hands. Strong and capable but still gentle and loving. She is fascinated by them.)

When she looks up, it is to find Red watching her with an expression she has become very accustomed to these past few months. 

(How could she miss it?)

She smiles at him. 

“How about a game of dots?” he asks cheerfully, after a happy moment of staring at each other. She nods and grabs her notebook from next to her on the seat, flipping open to a clean page. She then pats her pockets automatically in search of her pen and frowns when she doesn’t feel it there, forgetting where she put it. Then she feels a little tug on her hair and suddenly there it is, held lightly in between Red’s thumb and index finger, tilted in her direction in offering.

“Looking for this?” he asks cheekily.

She giggles and snatches it from him, giving him a playful shove. He chuckles lowly and pulls her easily back into his embrace.

As she removes the cap and perches it on the back end of the pen for safekeeping, Liz happens to glance in the rear-view mirror to see Dembe’s eyes on them both, observing curiously, watching them fuss good-naturedly, clearly at ease with one another in a way he has never seen. She looks away quickly, shying away from his direct gaze, and quickly begins drawing rows of dots for their game. 

Her and Red spend the ride like this, playing their silly games in her notebook, and laughing quietly with each other. Thanks to these distractions, the rest of the ride passes quickly (which she suspects was Red’s intention all along) and soon Liz feels the road change from paved highway to loose gravel and she looks up to see that Dembe has turned onto off the main road and onto a long driveway. Her heart leaps in her chest.

They must be close.

“We’re almost there, Lizzie,” Red says, answering her unwritten question. “I think we have time for one last game of hangman though and I do believe it’s my turn.”

By the time Liz wins her third game of hangman in a row (Red pinches her side in retribution for spelling “fedora” too quickly for him to draw his signature suited hangman), she can see the lake. She stares in wonder, and can barely breath for the beauty of it. 

It is a sizable lake but not too big that she and Red can’t take daily walks around the edge before she gets tired. There is a willow tree hanging lazily on the left bank and a worn bench on the right for sitting, resting, and feeding the ducks that happily paddle across the surface. And the whole beautiful view is perfectly visible from the house.

The _house._

Liz gasps as they turn the last corner in the driveway and it comes fully into view. It’s not big, probably less than two thousand square feet, but it doesn’t look small. For all it’s lacking in size, it makes up for in sheer cuteness. It is quaint and compact, just one floor, with blue shutters on the windows and tiny white window boxes underneath filled with blooming flowers.

It’s gorgeous.

Liz has always favored larger houses, wanting plenty of room to expand to a family when the time came. But, looking at this place, she is starting to doubt. It is the perfect size for just her and Red. And it doesn’t overwhelm her like the hustle and bustle of the city or the wide expanse of the suburbs. But Liz hadn’t known how overwhelmed she would be the world outside her little hospital room until they were on their way here. Had Red guessed how she would feel?

He presses a kiss to her hair.

Probably.

“What do you think?” he breathes as Dembe parks in front of the house and turns off the car. Liz can hear the nervousness in his voice.

(Silly Red.)

She finds a few spare lines in her notebook below their last game of hangman. 

_It’s so beautiful. I love it, Red. Thank you so much._

“Oh, Lizzie, I’m so glad,” Red says, sounding relieved. “Wait until you see the inside, come on…”

They say quick goodbyes to Dembe who, to Liz’s surprise, is not staying. 

“Dembe has some things to take care of for me, Lizzie. But don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll visit.”

(Liz can’t help but be secretly relieved. As much as she likes Dembe’s company, she’s only spent a few hours with him since she woke up and she is looking forward to just being with Red again after this stressful day. 

Just Red.)

They wave to Dembe from the small, wrap-around porch as he pulls away. Once he is out of sight around the bend of the driveway, Red pulls Lizzie over to the window box to the right of the door. He surprises her by plunging his hand into the soil, digging for a moment next to a bright yellow tulip before removing his hand with a triumphant “aha!” to reveal a small container hiding a key. 

Practical, as always. 

He quickly unlocks the front door, tucking the key inside his pants pocket, and ushers Liz inside ahead of him. 

“Let’s see, where shall we start, Lizzie? Well, to the right is the living room, complete with comfortable couch and flat screen TV…”

Red takes Liz through every room of the house, chatting animatedly about the construction of the rooms and the selection of the furniture, the color of the paint and all the different knick-knacks. Liz listens in silence as he talks, completely in awe. As he takes her through each room, it is painfully obvious that Red had the house furnished with her in mind. There is a sectional couch in the living room like she had had in her brownstone with Tom, a sunroom at the back of the house with a wonderful view of the surrounding field, complete with a chaise longue for napping and reading (she vaguely remembers saying to Red once that she always wanted a room pompous enough to have a chaise longue but it must have been ages ago, she can’t believe he remembered), beautiful armchairs and paintings in the small library which is packed with books of all kinds, several of which she remembers mentioning to Red at some point, and there’s even a framed photo of her and Sam in her bedroom.

Liz tears up when she sees that. 

They end the tour there in her bedroom, where Red has had the whole contents of her storage unit moved for easy access to her clothes and other personal belongings. There are two bedrooms in the house, one for her and one for Red, and of course he has given her the one with the best view of the lake and the attached bathroom. From a quick glance in, Liz can see that Red has had all of her preferred bath and beauty items, her favorite scents of shampoos and lotions, arranged inside, as well as some new products that look suspiciously expensive.

(She can’t wait to try those.)

Selfless man.

Liz looks around her beautiful bedroom, knowing she will be comfortable here in that king-sized bed with all those pillows, enjoy looking out the French doors framed by lacey blue curtains, love watching the surface of the lake ripple and flow in time with the gentle breeze. 

And then she notices Red standing in the doorway, tapping his fingers nervously on his thighs. 

Oh. He doesn’t know that she loves it.

Oh, _Red._

Liz simply walks up to him and puts her hands gently on either side of his face, framing his handsome features, taking a moment to gaze into his eyes before wrapping her arms around his shoulders, one hand caressing the nape of his neck. He gets the message quickly, wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing his face into her neck. 

“I’m so pleased you like it, Lizzie, I was so hoping you would,” he whispers, his words slightly muffled by the fabric of her hoodie.

She just nods her head against him, scratching her nails lightly through his short hair.

Yes.

They’ll be happy here.

* * *

Red sighs, rolling over in bed for what feels like the hundredth time.

He can’t sleep.

He’s too wired from the busy day of moving and apprehensively watching Lizzie. She had done very well, as he knew she would, he has no reason to be anxious, but he worries for her all the same. 

She has been through so much.

He had watched her cautiously explore the house in something like wonder, touching things gently as she went, pointing to things that warranted an explanation and smiling at others she recognized. She had realized that he was in need of reassurance that she liked the house and everything in it and she had done the best she could, obviously not through speech, but instead through touch.

Lizzie has become very tactile.

Red flips his pillow over, searching for the coolest side in last-ditch effort to get some rest. He sighs.

In light of not being able to speak freely, brief but comforting touches to his back, shoulders, and arms have become quite normal in their communications. It is Lizzie’s way of telling him things, subtle messages or obvious answers, when she doesn’t want to write things down. 

Red loves it.

It brings a new level of intimacy to their interactions that he hadn’t realized he’d been craving. He regrets the necessity of it, of course, but he loves the fact that Lizzie is never far from him.

Lizzie. 

Red rolls onto his side.

He had sent her to bed several hours ago, seeing she was exhausted from the stressful day, repeatedly dozing off on the couch, her head falling forward only to snap up again a second later, her mouth forming an adorable pout when she realized what happened before her eyes drooped closed once more and she did it all again. He had to work to suppress his fond chuckle. Instead, he had escorted her back to her room, making sure she had everything she needed, tissues and a bottle of water on her dresser, her notebook and pen on her nightstand. She had thanked him and wished him goodnight with a quick, sloppy note in her notebook, too tired to do anything more. 

She was asleep before he had turned out all the lights. 

He had tried not to stare at her while she slept and instead, left her room, pulling the door almost closed as he went. It felt odd to be leaving her to sleep. He had become very used to sleeping on a cot next to her bed in the hospital. 

It was comforting for them both.

But she’s out of the hospital now and she surely doesn’t want an old man leering at her while she sleeps, not when he has his own room. 

Red sighs once again and sits up in bed, deciding to give up on sleep altogether. He glances at the clock. 

3:27am. 

Red rubs his eyes. He has never been good at keeping normal sleeping hours but it has never really mattered before. The only person he normally lives with is Dembe and he sleeps like a rock, never waking when Red pads around the house in the dead of night, insomnia his only companion. But, in such a small house, Red is afraid of waking Lizzie. She needs her rest. And frankly, so does he. He needs to be well-rested so he can care for Lizzie the way she requires. He wants to do well taking care of her.

(He wants to be what she needs.)

Well, if he can’t sleep, Red knows from experience that there’s no helping it. He might as well get up and do something that might make him tired. Perhaps he will refrain from leaving his room though. To get to the kitchen or the library, he would have to pass Lizzie’s room and he left her door open a crack. He doesn’t want to frighten her, prowling about in the dark. No, he’ll stay here in his room. He’s sure Dembe packed at least a few books for him in his bag, if he can just find the one – 

A shrill scream pierces the silence. 

_Lizzie._

Red is up and out of bed in a flash, dashing the short distance to Lizzie’s room, throwing the door completely open, terrified.

“Lizzie, what –”

But Lizzie can’t hear him.

She is asleep, tangled in her blanket, scrunched up in a ball on her bed, arms wrapped protectively around her head, right where the scar from her injury lays lurking under her hair. 

She is having a nightmare about her accident.

Oh, no.

As he watches, she lets out another bloodcurdling scream, trying to fend off imaginary attackers.

She’s going to hurt herself.

“Lizzie, no –”

Red manages to unlock his limbs and move from the doorway, hurrying to Lizzie’s bedside, gently taking her hands and trying to tug her arms away from her head. 

“Lizzie, sweetheart, it’s just a dream, wake up –”

She struggles against him but she can’t come close to breaking his hold.

(She is still so weak.)

“Lizzie, please, wake up –”

She kicks at him, trying to free herself, and makes an odd noise, a cross between a moan and a whimper, that goes right through him.

“ _Elizabeth –_ ”

And then with a ragged gasp, her eyes fly open, tears gathering there before she’s even fully awake. She stares at him, panicking and failing for a few more seconds before she recognizes him. He holds her hands fast.

“Lizzie, it’s me, it’s all right, it was just a dre–”

But he doesn’t even finish before Lizzie is pulling her hands from his and throwing her arms around his neck, sobbing into his shoulder.

“Oh, Lizzie…”

Red climbs onto the bed and pulls her shaking form protectively into his chest, wrapping his arms around her. He talks quietly to her, speaking words of comfort, feels himself rocking slightly, desperate to calm her.

He can’t stand to see her like this.

She is crying and whimpering and clutching fistfuls of his t-shirt, cowering against him, terrified. 

(He wishes that he could kill her attackers all over again.)

Red can’t do anything but let her get it all out. He hates feeling so helpless. It feels like several, long, awful days have passed by the time Lizzie’s sobs finally fade to weak sniffles. Red continues to rub her back in soothing circles as she gradually calms down. 

“There we go, that’s better, isn’t it, Lizzie? Are you alright? Do you need anything? Or would you like me to leave?”

He hadn’t been sure if she was even listening to his constant stream of whispered nonsense but as soon as he says this, she latches back onto him with renewed panic and he can feel her shaking her head frantically against his shoulder. 

“Alright, okay, I’m sorry, I’m not going anywhere, I’m staying right here,” he says quickly, not wanting to make her start crying again. “What would you like me to do?” he asks gently.

Lizzie thinks for a moment and Red wonders briefly if he should reach over and get her notebook for her but then Lizzie moves her face to his neck and mouths three words into the skin there.

(Red has to suppress a shiver at the sensation of her lips on his skin.)

_Stay with me?_

Red’s not sure how he understands these non-verbal words from her but somehow, they are perfectly clear and he is answering before he even realizes it.

“Yes, of course, Lizzie.”

He feels her give a little sigh of relief and his heart squeezes painfully. She needs him here to comfort her and that’s all he’s ever wanted.

(In what universe would he say no?)

“Here, let’s get you settled…” he murmurs, disentangling from her gently, squeezing her hand when she gives a weak little whimper at the loss of contact. “Just a minute, sweetheart,” he assures her. 

He gets up from the bed to retrieve the box of tissues and bottle of water from her dresser, thankful for his foresight in leaving them. He gives her a handful of tissues and opens the water for her while she hastily dries her face. He makes her take a few sips before pushing her notebook aside to make room the new items, just in case she needs them during the night, or whatever’s left of it. 

He then sets to work on her blankets, gently extricating the soft blue one that became tangled around her and ushering her under the covers instead, taking an extra minute to fluff her pillow, which makes her crack a tiny smile.

(He can’t help but feel ridiculously proud of that.) 

Only once Red is sure Lizzie is completely comfortable and ready for sleep again does he move around to the other side of the bed and gingerly lay down next to her. He throws her blue blanket over himself (trying to ignore the residual heat and scent lingering there), not wanting to intrude on her space by joining her under the covers, but he has barely gotten settled before she is grabbing his arms and tugging them back around her, turning in bed so she is facing him, tucking her head underneath his chin. 

(The actual warmth and scent of her is so much better than the pitiful remnants on the blanket that he can’t help but pull her little closer, closing his eyes and wishing that he never has to move.)

He waits for her to relax, feeling her let out a deep breath and close her eyes, before pressing a few desperate kisses into her soft, sweet-smelling hair. 

He feels intense anger towards the people who did this to her but he pushes it away firmly, not wanting to sully this time with Lizzie. They have been dealt with and there is no point in dwelling on it. He needs to focus on caring for Lizzie. He will protect her, as he always has. 

(Even if it’s from her own dreams.)

With that last comforting thought, his eyes drift close as he curls himself protectively around Lizzie, finally feeling able to sleep, here with her in his arms.

(It feels so right.)

She has no more nightmares.

* * *

Liz wakes slowly from a dead sleep, feeling groggy and disoriented, struggling to remember where she is and why her head feels so fuzzy. She blinks with difficulty, her eyelids feeling heavy and weighed down. Ugh. Something happened last night, she’s sure of it, it’s lingering on the edges of her consciousness, she just can’t quite remember what it is…she was scared, she had a nightmare, and Red…

_Red._

Liz whips around to find herself alone in bed.

Where is Red?

She starts to panic, about to cry out helplessly, when she hears noise from the kitchen.

Red is in the kitchen. Oh. Red is making breakfast.

Liz flops back down onto the bed, covering her face with her hands, trying to get the frantic beating of her heart under control.

She’s so pathetic, descending into a panic attack just because Red isn’t glued to her side every second of the day. She should be able to function by herself, she shouldn’t need him there to _sleep_ , for God’s sake.

She pulls her hands away from her face, heaving a big sigh. She turns onto her side to face her nightstand, spying the tissues and water Red left there last night for her. 

(Thoughtful man.)

Liz knows she shouldn’t need Red’s presence to function, she shouldn’t be so dependent. But she hasn’t slept as well as she did last night in…well, over a year. And why shouldn’t she do whatever is necessary to feel better, within reason, anyway? It’s not like she’s going around murdering people and calling it therapy. She just needs the support and love of one person who seems more than willing to help her. Is that so bad?

No, Liz reasons with herself, it’s not. There is nothing wrong with seeking help in a form she sees fit. And that form is Red.

Red.

He was so wonderful last night, consoling her, taking care of her, protecting her, no questions asked. 

(She was scared, reliving her accident all over again, and his warmth was the only thing that drove the fear away.)

Lying there in bed, Liz is successfully shedding any guilt she feels about needing Red to feel better but she still feels so endlessly grateful to him for everything he’s done. How will she ever thank him? 

Liz sighs again, pushing herself up to sit on the edge of her bed, attempting to run a hand through her hair, which she’s sure is a sight to behold, twisted every which way and halfway out of her ponytail.

Ugh.

She needs the bathroom.

Liz stands carefully (feeling immensely proud of herself when she manages to stand and stay standing without holding onto anything) and makes it successfully to the spacious bathroom. She completes her morning rituals, deciding to forgo a shower until later, settling for washing her face and brushing out her hair. As an afterthought, she picks one of the many sweet-smelling perfumes that are lined up on the wide vanity. 

Peach blossom.

(She hopes Red will like it.)

When she’s finished, she wanders back out into her bedroom to perch on the side of her bed again, picking up her notebook and uncapping her pen.

She wants to thank Red somehow, through some grand, eloquent written statement, something that could perhaps begin to convey all the gratitude she feels towards him. 

_Good morning, Red, thank you for helping me –_

No, too impersonal.

_Red, thank you so much –_

Too serious.

_Hey, Red, thanks for last night –_

No, no, no. She scribbles that one out quickly, feeling her face heat in a blush. She rolls her eyes at herself.

Ugh, this is ridiculous. Liz tosses her notebook back on her nightstand, groaning internally. How is she supposed to express eternal gratitude through _writing_ , those things need to be _spoken_.

But she can’t speak.

Liz squeezes her eyes shut, wrapping her arms around her middle. 

She feels so _broken._

But she doesn’t want to cry right now, her eyes are swollen and puffy enough from last night. She needs to go to Red. Red will help her feel better. She’ll find some way to thank him. Besides, this is Red.

(He’d burn down the world for her.)

Liz pushes up from the bed in a rush, not wanting to give herself any more time to think, and heads to the kitchen.

She finds Red there, as she suspected, fixing breakfast. She wanders in quietly (not being able to speak gives one a certain stealth) and he doesn’t hear her at first so she takes the rare opportunity to lean on the door way unnoticed and watch him.

He is bustling around the kitchen, happy as a clam, humming quietly to himself. The first thing she notices is his attire. At the hospital, he always wore some variation of a three-piece suit, sometimes sans vest or jacket. Today, to her surprise, he’s gone casual. He’s wearing worn jeans and a long sleeve gray t-shirt. 

The sight of him, dressed like that, fixing breakfast? It feels utterly domestic.

(She is filled with warmth from head to toe and she’s not entirely sure it has nothing to do with the view that those jeans provide. She blushes.)

He seems very busy, opening cabinets and fetching ingredients. She sees that he has three or four things cooking at the same time and, of course, seems to be managing them all in perfect harmony. (Liz can’t help but cringe. If that was her, everything would either be on fire or on its way there.) As she watches, he sprinkles cheese on scrambled eggs, flips sausage patties over, checks bacon, and pushes toast down in the toaster. Liz can’t help but stand there and just smile at him, working so diligently to make them food. She always figured he’d be a good cook. 

He flips a waffle in the air. 

She rolls her eyes, grinning. 

And a show off. 

He notices her then, standing silently in the door way, watching him with what she is sure is a very fond smile on her face.

“Lizzie!” he calls happily. She feels her heart stutter at his obvious joy, feels a little as though she’s taking actual physical strength from his smile. “Good morning! Did you sleep well last night?”

It’s obvious that he’s ignoring her whole… _episode_ , probably trying to spare her the embarrassment, and she’s grateful. She nods shyly in answer to his question and he beams. 

“Good,” he says, softer now. “Well, come and sit down, breakfast is almost ready!”

Liz perches at the breakfast bar, her chin on her hand, and watches as Red flits around the kitchen with a new energy, placing breakfast things in front of her, chatting non-stop all the while.

“– and I wasn’t completely sure what you preferred for breakfast, other than knowing that you abhor pancakes, of course –”

Silverware and napkins.

“– so, there’s none of those but I chanced it with waffles, I hope that’s alright, I am fairly optimistic about those but, after all, what are waffles but pancakes with syrup pockets so –”

Cup of coffee, already prepared, just as she likes it.

(He’s nervous.)

“– just in case, I made eggs as well, I figured scrambled with cheese would be alright, though I know I prefer over-easy myself and –”

Glass of orange juice.

“– I wasn’t sure about your likes on the breakfast meat front so I made a little of everything, sausage and bacon, both turkey and full fat, quite indulgent, I assure you –”

Plate overflowing with breakfast food. 

“– and, of course, I made some toast, the breakfast food staple, always a safe bet so –”

Liz’s hand darts out and grabs his wrist before he can get away again. He stops and turns to look at her, eyes wide and strangely pleading. 

(He was hoping she would stop him.)

She gently strokes his hand and smiles and she can see him relax, the tension and anxious excitement draining out of him. 

_Thank you_ , she mouths at him.

A smile slowly blooms on his face, growing into a beautiful, sacred thing, and he turns his hand around in hers to grip back. 

(He knows she’s not just talking about breakfast.)

Looking at him now, Liz is suddenly sure that this was the right way to thank him. Just simple and sincere. Real. She doesn’t necessarily owe Red anything. He’s here caring for her because he wants to be and that says it all.

“You’re welcome, Lizzie,” he murmurs, love in his eyes.

The moment ends and they let each other go for the moment. He sets about fixing himself a plate, his movements no longer rushed and agitated. He sits down across from her at the bar and they enjoy their breakfast together, Red talking and Liz nodding or shaking her head, laughing and giving him looks that he interprets perfectly. She marvels at how they can still communicate, even when her notebook is sitting untouched in her bedroom. 

(And she doesn’t miss how Red watches her eat, taking note of what she consumes with gusto and what she politely puts to the side of her plate. She has a feeling tomorrow’s breakfast will be filled with her favorites.)

It’s the most wonderful morning she’s had in a year.

* * *

(Things settle after that first breakfast. 

They adjust to living together in next to no time at all, sinking into a routine with little effort, enjoying the search for things to do to occupy their days, here by the lake.

Together.)

* * *

To make the whole transition easier, Red took the liberty of having all of their hospital board games transported to the lake house, thinking Lizzie might want some familiar activities to engage in. 

He was right. 

They spend their afternoons at the house playing game after game, Red playfully taunting Lizzie while she writes snide comments back in her notebook. Red enjoys seeing Lizzie get to express her more competitive side and he gets a thrill out of watching her calculate her next move, her features set and determined. 

(He has lost more than a few games because he was distracted by the intense focus of her icy blue eyes.

He sees Lizzie smirk after one of his particularly foolish moves in chess and wonders vaguely if she’s doing it on purpose. He tries to find it in himself to care.)

Red also had the house stocked with some games that he and Lizzie didn’t have access to in the hospital. With a whole, albeit relatively small, house to themselves, he didn’t see any reason why they shouldn’t branch out a little with all their new space and time. 

He discovers through trial and error that Lizzie has no patience for jigsaw puzzles, at least not at first. He has always had a fondness for them and keeps an unfinished one on a small glass table in the living room at all times, tempting him to finish it if Lizzie is napping or reading. She sees him working at them often enough that, one day, with no warning, she plops down across the table from him with a world-weary sigh and sets to work. 

She finishes it within half an hour. 

He had simply gone to make some sandwiches for them (ham and swiss on rye for him and turkey and provolone on pumpernickel for Lizzie), telling her to feel free to keep working on it, he’d be right back to help her. When he’d returned, there she was, idly examining her nails, the completed puzzle laid out neatly in front of her.

When Red had spluttered and asked in disbelief how exactly she had managed to finish the better part of a one-thousand-piece jigsaw in under an hour she had simply shrugged and wrote in her notebook.

_I’m trained to see patterns in things, Red. Puzzles like this are easy for me._

He realizes after that that it’s not that Lizzie has no patience for jigsaw puzzles, it’s that she’s simply bored by them.

(He wonders if she will ever stop stunning him.)

They stick to classic board games after that, though Liz respects Red’s interest in a causal puzzle laying unfinished on the table, to be picked at little by little.

After one particularly invigorating game of Monopoly, (“You should really sell me Park Place, Lizzie, it’s a fabulous financial decision, I assure you.” _I’m gonna tell you where you can park your place if you don’t stop asking me_.) Lizzie offers to teach Red mancala. She found a board and stones in the auxiliary game closet and, when she’d held it up to suggest a game, Red had to admit that he didn’t know how to play. 

Instead of looking put out, Lizzie had been thrilled at the prospect of teaching him something, grabbing her notebook and writing an enthusiastic message for him. 

_You’ve never played this?! Wow! I finally found something!_

(He tries to ignore how his heart skips a beat at reading that.) 

_Sam taught me how to play this when I was around 13, I think, and we used to play every day when I came home from school! It’s lots of fun and it’s really easy to learn! Don’t worry, I’ll show you!_

It’s one of the longest messages she’s written him of late and he is thrilled to see her so excited about something, not minding at all that it’s technically at his expense. How can he?

She wants to teach him something. 

Lizzie takes that afternoon to carefully write out all the rules of the game in her notebook, even writing the whole thing out a second time because “ _the first time was barely legible, just wait, I can do better_.” She goes so far as to tear the pages out of her notebook so he can keep them for reference. Red studies the rules, asking questions to clarify, while Lizzie writes out quick answers for him. 

Once she’s sure he’s got the basics down, Lizzie jumps right into their first game and Red can’t help but chuckle delightedly at her eagerness. She demonstrates every move, her motions slow and exaggerated so he can see how it’s done. He catches on quickly and soon they are playing happily, Lizzie winning every game. Red doesn’t care. 

The real victory is Lizzie applying herself to something. 

Red is so encouraged by this that, once the novelty of mancala wears off, he offers to teach Lizzie poker. He thinks this will keep her mind active and engaged. She is excited to learn, tasking herself with memorizing the rules and playing practice games with Red. She understands the fundamentals with no problem – Lizzie is an incredibly intelligent woman, after all – but Red thinks that he probably shouldn’t take her to Vegas. 

Lizzie has an awful poker face.

(Her tongue peeks out from between her lips whenever she has a good hand. Red thinks that it’s the most adorable tell he’s ever seen.)

One deck of cards keeps them occupied for days as they rotate between poker, solitaire, rummy, and blackjack. Lizzie loves it, thrilled with the challenge. Red preens inside. 

Those doctors don’t know what they’re talking about.

* * *

Lizzie takes to leaving letters and notes around the house for Red, a habit which, if he wasn’t already completely head over heels in love with her, surely would have sealed the deal. 

They vary in length, content and style, sometimes full pages of beautiful cursive carefully removed from her notebook detailing how much she loves the house or the area or the selection of perfumes he purchased for her.

(He’s gets particular enjoyment out of guessing which one she’s wearing on any given day, subtly sniffing as she walks past him, hoping he’s being inconspicuous enough.)

Other days she leaves little post-it notes for him in odd places around the house with cute messages or silly drawings. He finds pink notes on the fridge with complements on his latest cooking, yellow notes on the cover of his current book reminding him what he should read next, blue notes stuck to the table in the living room taunting him for losing their latest game of Scrabble on the word “veritable”.

He adores finding her handwritten gifts left around the house for him. He knows that it’s probably primarily a way for Lizzie to practice her writing but she’s also told him that she knows how much he likes spontaneity and she wants him to know she’s grateful for him and what he does for her. He tells her he already knows but he likes the fact that she does it because she genuinely wants to. The thought warms his heart.

(It makes him feel loved.)

* * *

Some days they read, curled up in the library all day with their respective books, drinking warm beverages, snacks within reach, happy to just be occupying the same space. Lizzie prefers the genres of romance and suspense while he errs more towards non-fiction and historical.

(They complement each other.)

Lizzie doesn’t usually ask him to read to her anymore, not now that she’s out of the hospital and able to pick and choose her own books, perfectly happy to sit sideways in a comfortable armchair, long legs slung over the armrest, absentmindedly twirling strands of her hair around a finger as she reads, sometimes mouthing the words to herself. 

(Red doesn’t think she notices but he does.)

Lizzie does sometimes ask him to read at night, when she’s too tired to do any particular task but not quite tired enough to sleep. She usually picks a random book in another language, one he’s fluent in, and he reads to her while she dozes in and out of sleep. She’s written and told him that she finds the unfamiliar cadences of French or Farsi just unengaging enough that she can listen passively, without getting caught up in the story and avoiding sleep. 

(Sometimes Red deviates from whatever he’s reading, knowing she won’t notice the difference, and croons to her in Russian or Arab or the language of the night how much he adores her, her strength and her drive. She doesn’t know and he’ll never tell her.)

When either of them finish a book, they’ll summarize it for the other over a meal. Red tells her of the lives of World War II generals or the plight of global climate change or the role of woman in East African society, his hands gesturing wildly, so absorbed in her rapt attention as he explains that he sometimes forgets to actually eat. Lizzie giggles, one of the precious few sounds she can still make, and just points to his plate, nudging it toward him with a smile. 

(He loves it when she does that.)

Since Lizzie can’t verbally tell him of the books she reads, she’ll sometimes write out the plot in her own words in her notebook, both to test her memory and to share it with Red. He reads her summary and asks questions about the characters while she lounges with her feet in his lap, curious about her opinions on this love triangle and that murderer. Through her quick writing, he learns more about her psychological knowledge and personal thoughts on life and love. It is a fascinating window to her mind that he cherishes.

(He loves her.)

* * *

It is an exciting day when Lizzie shows Red the book. 

She comes hurrying into the kitchen from the library where she had drifted one of her traces to find him doing early dinner prep and she smiles widely, waving a small hardcover book. 

“What’s that?” Red asks genially, already mimicking her smile unconsciously.

Liz hands him the book and points excitedly to the cover which reads in plain, academic letters: “Shorthand Manual”. 

“A book about shorthand?” Red reads, surprised. “Whatever do you need this for, Lizzie? I can read your writing just fine, you know that.”

But Lizzie is already bending over the counter, scrawling a note to him in her notebook. He peers over her shoulder to read it. 

_I know but a more concise language will be easier and faster for me to write! This’ll make it even easier to communicate!_

She looks so happy, taking the book back from him and hopping up at the bar to start reading and practicing while keeping him company as he makes dinner, that he can’t help but smile and nod along with her. 

But Red also feels a tingling in the back of his mind telling him that this is a bad idea. He turns away from Lizzie and back to the pan of onions he is sautéing, frowning to himself. All of a sudden, Dr. Lauflin’s words come back and start to echo in his ears. 

_“She must speak, Mr. Kershaw.”_

Red glances over his shoulder at Lizzie, who feels his gaze on her (as she always does) and looks up at him, flashing him a blinding smile before turning back to her book. Red continues to gaze at her for a moment before shaking his head to himself and turning back to the onions. 

Nothing that makes Lizzie that happy can be bad for her. Perhaps she just needs to get her confidence up with some shorthand and then she’ll be ready to try speaking again. Yes, surely that’s all. 

She’ll be fine. He’ll make sure of it.

In the meantime, he’ll call Dembe and ask him to bring a copy of the shorthand manual when he visits.

It seems that Red has some catching up to do.

* * *

At night, they watch movies. 

This was something they’d never done together before, since there was no TV in Lizzie’s hospital room, (and she hadn’t exactly invited him over for movie night before her accident), but they take to the joint activity like fish to water.

(Red had the house stocked with about 200 different genres of films in the hopes that this would happen. He’s always wanted to watch movies with Lizzie.)

Somehow, it was completely normal for them to climb into Lizzie’s bed, blankets and pillows creating a warm, safe cocoon around them, popcorn and drinks to share, and watch a movie on the TV in Lizzie’s bedroom. 

They take turns, alternating in genres, with Red picking one night and Lizzie picking the next. Sometimes they pick serious informational movies, which Red delights in providing context for. Sometimes they pick romances that Lizzie likes and Red makes sure to have tissues on hand for any emotional scenes. And sometimes they pick silly movies for the sheer purpose of laughing at them. Red will make fun of the characters and, if Lizzie knows the movie, sometimes she’ll make him laugh by writing the actor’s lines in her notebook before they say them. 

But Red’s favorite part of movie nights is the contact. 

After the first movie or two, Red had found himself with his arms full of Lizzie not half an hour in, leaning back against his chest or resting her head on his shoulder and usually always holding his hand. Sometimes she even lets him play with her hair, his fingers gently stroking through the soft dark locks, her eyes drifting closed at the pleasant sensation.

But Red doesn’t think he’s ever been happier than when he is lying in bed with Lizzie, without a care in the world, feeling the warmth length of her body pressed up against his. 

(Except perhaps when Lizzie tugs him wordlessly to lay his head in her lap or against her shoulder. Then all he can do is just sigh contentedly and treasure every second.)

Once their movie is over for the night, Red doesn’t bother leaving Lizzie’s room. Ever since that first awful night, Red stays, sleeping wrapped around Lizzie in her bed until the sun comes up, keeping the nightmares away.

Red didn’t ever think he’d be privy to the sacred knowledge that comes with sleeping in the same bed as Lizzie. He now knows that she likes to pull her hair back in a ponytail to sleep to keep it from getting tangled, she likes to fall asleep on her side but she almost always wakes up on her stomach, and sometimes she has dreams and pulls him closer, letting out a breath in a huff that almost sounds like mumbled words, her fingers grasping for him, only settling when she can hear his heartbeat.

(He loves her so much that it hurts.)

* * *

Another exceptional aspect of their new lifestyle, in this little house by the lake, is everyday touch. Liz has become extremely tactile with Red in ways she never was before her accident. Red suspects it is a combination of their greatly improved communication and comfort level and Lizzie’s lack of speech. 

(He also suspects he’d have to be crazy to mind it.)

He finds Lizzie using touch to replace words. She rubs his biceps and forearms to thank him for little things, she pats his thighs or calves to get his attention, she wiggles her fingers against his sides to tickle and tease him. 

(He loves it.)

Red is tactile by default and touch has always been an important part of relationships for him. Except with Lizzie. He had always been sure to tread carefully where she was concerned, especially when they first started working together and their interactions were tainted by her animosity and resentment for him. He refrained, at least most of the time and always with great difficulty, from patting her arm to console her or touching the small of her back to usher her through doors ahead of him, when he wouldn’t have given it a second thought in anyone else’s company. 

But Lizzie is special. 

(She always has been.)

Before her accident, Red had long since resigned himself to a strictly professional relationship with Lizzie but that didn’t mean he didn’t long to be free to touch her in all his normal ways. 

The way things developed between them after she woke up left Red quite in the lurch. Her casual touches to his hands and arms from her hospital bed were something to be cherished in case she saw fit to stop at any time after being released, which he had fully expected. But now, _now_ , those treasured hospital touches are chaste and formal compared to what they have now. 

Because it is not a normal day if Lizzie is not, at some point, plastered against his side or tucked under his arm, soft and warm and wonderful. Whether it’s during their games, their reading, or their movies, they are hardly ever physically apart. 

Red is well aware that these close interactions are anything but sexual (though he perhaps would have considered them as such in any other situation) and the thought truly doesn’t cross his mind. He and Lizzie are busy adjusting to this new, quiet, personal lifestyle they have here in this house by the lake and it’s just not sexual or romantic in nature. It’s something different and not at all unpleasant. It has all the intimacy and connectedness of a marriage or long partnership, without the sex. And that’s just fine with Red. He is happy here with Lizzie, helping her recover and function independently again. 

And if their new closeness were to develop at some point into romantic territory, it would be strictly on Lizzie’s terms and complete gift to Red. But he doesn’t mind. He’s happy with what they have, which he knows is so much more than he deserves. 

(And if something bothers him about the way Lizzie clings to him in her sleep, like he’s the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth, he shoves away clinical words like “dependency” and “depression” and “unhealthy” from his mind, and holds her tighter.)

* * *

Lizzie has her bad days too.

They are usually rainy days, when they can hear the rain pattering on the roof and see it making little indentations on the surface of the lake as it falls. On these days, Red watches as Lizzie drifts away from him, all alone in her head, sitting in front of the window, staring blankly outside. 

Red worries about her on those cold days, sitting there, wrapped up in a hoodie that’s too big for her, notebook lying next to her abandoned, looking small and sad. The doctor’s words about depression come back to him in full force but he pushes them away vehemently. 

Lizzie isn’t depressed. Everyone has days like that sometimes.

(Don’t they?)

Besides, Red knows how to make her feel better. He moves around quietly in the kitchen, making them some hot tea with honey and lemon or hot chocolate with marshmallows and whipped cream. When it’s piping hot and comforting, he takes it to wherever Lizzie is curled up and silent and watches as she comes out of her trance and turns to him, her eyes brightening as she sees him coming towards her.

He watches her come back to life.

(He doesn’t even really need the drink after he sees that look from her, warmth spreading from head to toe inside him at her loving gaze.)

She thanks him in her way – with a grateful smile and a pat on the nearest part of him – and they spend the day enjoying their drinks and talking about anything and everything in that new way of theirs, Red speaking slowly and softly to her and Liz writing neatly in her notebook in answer. 

They talk about anything now, moving from subject to subject without any trouble, going from favorite colors to college courses to hopes and dreams. They share details about their childhoods and growing up, Lizzie spending afternoons writing out story after story of her and Sam and the things they did, Red sitting with his arms around her, reading over her shoulder as she goes. 

(Red is so familiar with her now, in ways he has never been before, that he can almost guess what she’s about to write before she writes it, taking in her expression and body language, the tears or sparkle in her eyes. He treasures this new mental connection more than anything else in the world.) 

When Lizzie doesn’t feel like writing, she’ll put her notebook to one side and just listen to Red talk, sometimes loudly with many topic changes and laughter, regaling her with tales of the people he’s met and experiences he’s had, or sometimes softly and with deep feeling that she can only close her eyes and absorb, her head resting comfortably in Red’s lap, his gentle fingers in her hair.

(On those days, he talks about deeper things, like how it feels to see the sun rise over the Eiffel Tower and the sun fall in Iceland. He stops himself from telling her about he it feels to look at her because, after all, those things are one and the same.)

Red thinks, of all the wonderful times they are spending together, these kinds of days may be his favorite. The rain gives them a blanket of tranquility and peacefulness they can lay under for hours, just being together with nothing to disturb them, no blacklisters, no taskforce, no enemies.

Just them.

It’s so different from that awful helplessness he had suffocated under while she was in her coma and that time that feels a whole world away now, an awful nightmare, the memory of which just makes them cling closer to each other.

(When they’re together like this, everything else fades away, that strange uneasiness that Red feels at Lizzie’s silence shoved away into the back of his mind. Lizzie needs him, here with her, just as he needs her. She’ll be fine.

Won’t she?)

* * *

Red receives a call from Dembe, who tells Red that he will arrive for a visit next week, bringing food and supplies. Red can’t wait. It’s been a month since he’s seen his brother and he has missed him. He loves every second of his time with Lizzie, of course, but it will be nice to give Dembe a hug, play a game of chess or two, and catch up.

Red tells Lizzie the news, nearly bursting with excitement, expecting her to be pleased. 

She likes Dembe. 

However, Lizzie merely smiles faintly and wanders off to sit on the couch, wrapping her arms around her knees and looking out the window. Red frowns. Why isn’t Lizzie happy to hear Dembe is visiting? 

(Why isn’t Lizzie happy?)

Well, Red reasons, maybe she’s just having a bad day, and he sets about making some hot tea for her. That will help.

(Won’t it?)

* * *

Dembe sees the lake house come into view around the bend of the driveway and sighs in relief. 

He’s tired of being in the car. 

It’s been a long drive from the city, where he was making phone calls, attending meetings and approving transactions for Raymond. He’s been fully running the things for nearly a year now in Raymond’s stead, standing in as a temporary replacement for the Concierge of Crime. Although, it been so long that the criminals in Raymond’s circle as starting to wonder whether he’s coming back at all. That’s one of the things Dembe plans on addressing with Raymond while he is here visiting. 

But first, a warm bed will do just fine.

He pulls up to the house, admiring the picturesque view of the lake, the setting sun reflecting off the flat surface, and parks the car with a low sigh. He looks toward the house as he turns the car off, seeing the curtains on the front windows flick and, a second later, the front door swings open. Raymond stands in the doorway, smiling broadly. Dembe grins back and quickly gets out of the car.

He has missed Raymond.

Raymond laughs happily and hurries down the steps and off the porch towards him, letting him stretch languorously before wrapping his arms around him in a hug. Dembe chuckles and hugs him back enthusiastically, patting him on the back, and letting himself be cradled by the older man.

Raymond is the only man on Earth that could possibly fill the shoes of both a father and a brother for Dembe. He’ll never understand how Raymond took on both roles so naturally. 

(Raymond is also his dearest friend.)

Raymond eventually pulls back, giving Dembe a kiss on the cheek, and Dembe can see Liz over Raymond’s shoulder, standing on the porch. Dembe waves at her and she gives a little wave back but she does not move forward to greet him. Dembe frowns a little to himself in confusion. 

Liz stands there, her arms wrapped around her midriff, wearing a worn hoodie that looks several sizes too big for her. The fabric drowns her thin form and makes her look distinctly unhealthy as she stands framed in the light from inside the house, spilling onto the porch and out onto the lawn through the open door.

Raymond claps Dembe on the shoulder, drawing his attention away from Liz, and gets his bag from the passenger side of the car, throwing it over his shoulder and telling him to leave the supplies he brought until morning. Dembe nods and follows him up to the porch. He stops in front of Liz and smiles warmly at her. 

Despite how she looks, it is good to see her. He hopes she is doing well.

“Hello, Elizabeth,” Dembe says quietly. “How are you?”

But Liz only smiles and nods shyly, drifting to Raymond’s side, where her fingers reach for his hand and he takes it without a word, chatting to Dembe all the while. 

A sense of unease prickles at the back of Dembe’s neck. 

He may have just gotten here but he feels that he doesn’t need much more than a few minutes to see that all is not quite right with Liz.

* * *

When Raymond leads him to his bedroom that night, Dembe is rather confused to find himself in Raymond’s room. Having furnished and decorated the house himself, per Raymond’s instructions, he is extremely surprised that Raymond would think he can fool him.

“And you’ll be sleeping in here, my friend, you’ll be comfortable?”

Dembe has slept in far less pleasant places than a large bedroom with a kind sized bed and a flat screen TV. His comfort is not the issue.

“Raymond, this is your room. I will not have you sleeping on the couch.”

Raymond frowns, genuinely confused, before seeing his error and saying what is probably the last sentence Dembe ever expected to leave his mouth. 

“Oh no, Dembe, I won’t be sleeping on the couch, don’t worry. Lizzie and I share.”

Dembe just blinks, not believing his ears.

“You and Elizabeth share…a room?” he questions hopefully.

Raymond then has the grace to look a little uncomfortable.

“Uh, no. A bed,” he says, scratching the back of his head awkwardly. “Lizzie…she has nightmares if she sleeps alone.”

Dembe simply stares at him in silence. 

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, Dembe, it’s not at all what you think. You should have heard her screaming our first night here. She was almost inconsolable. I…I can’t leave her. We both sleep better if we’re together.”

“Yes, I imagine so.” 

“Dembe,” Raymond is then uncharacteristically stern, frowning at him in a chastising manner Dembe feels is absolutely out of place in the given the circumstances. “It’s not like that, alright? We just sleep. Lizzie’s not ready for…anything like that. It’s strictly platonic so don’t go getting any ideas. Understand?”

Dembe just shakes his head, befuddled but too tired to deal with matters like these tonight, and bids Raymond a good night.

He’ll figure it out in the morning.

* * *

The next morning Dembe wakes, fresh from a good night’s sleep and he decides to take the next day to observe Raymond and Liz. After all, he is not one for making rash judgements and he does not want to jump to any false conclusions, not when there could be a perfectly reasonable explanation for Liz’s behavior last night. And Raymond and Liz sharing a bed. Platonically.

Dembe is skeptical.

After waking, he wanders to the kitchen to find Raymond and Liz awake, Raymond cooking and Liz sitting at the bar watching. Raymond refuses any offer of help with breakfast so Dembe takes a seat next to Liz at the bar, perching on a stool and smiling at her. 

“It’s good to see you looking so well, Elizabeth.”

(It’s a bit of a fib but a complement never hurt anyone, especially someone who is in Liz’s condition.)

But just like last night, Liz only smiles at him in thanks. Then, she surprises him by turning to a notebook sitting next to her on the counter and starting to write. It takes a moment but then she pushes the notebook to him across the counter and points very obviously at the sentence she’s written there, her letters painstakingly neat and comically large, clearly trying to make it easy for him to read.

_Thank you. How was your drive up?_

Dembe’s heart sinks at his eyes flit over the words. 

Elizabeth is still not speaking.

He is now officially worried.

“The drive was fine, thank you, Elizabeth,” he manages to say quietly, through the sadness pulling at him.

She just nods happily, oblivious, and, evidently meeting some personal quota for daily socializing, goes back to watching Raymond cook.

Dembe can’t believe it. 

He heard Dr. Lauflin confront Raymond in the last days before Liz was discharged from the hospital, though he is not sure that Raymond knows that. He knows how important it is that Liz tries to speak. He knows what bad news it is that she’s not.

This does not bode well.

Dembe continues to observe as Raymond makes breakfast, a big celebratory fry up of eggs, potatoes, bacon, toast, and coffee, all the while keeping up a running commentary to Liz, who occasionally lets out a little giggle or huff, while Raymond turns back repeatedly to look at her, gauging her expression and guessing what she’s thinking by looking at her. Occasionally, Liz will scribble a note for Red in her notebook and he will glance at it as he passes by her seat at the bar, chuckling and responding to what he sees there.

Dembe manages a glance at one of the notes, clearly not meant for his eyes, and finds it completely illegible to him. He squints at the small, neat row of symbols, nothing like the large, obvious print that Liz had taken pains to write for him, and, with a shock, he realizes it is shorthand. 

Then the shorthand manual Raymond had requested he bring with him was not purely for educational purposes or, at the worst, a resource to assist Liz with communication while she practiced speaking, as Dembe had foolishly assumed.

She is using it as her sole method of communication with Raymond.

Things are worse than Dembe thought.

* * *

Dembe continues to watch Raymond and Liz throughout the afternoon, saying little, choosing a random book from the library and picking a chair in the living room, pretending to read while watching Raymond and Liz play an assortment of board games together, something that is clearly a long-standing ritual. 

It’s only when Liz jumps for the fourth time when Dembe gently clears his throat that he realizes that the only human contact Liz had is with Raymond. While in the hospital, she had largely refused to communicate with the team of doctors assigned to her daily care, preferring to be only in Raymond’s company. 

At the time, Dembe had been pleased to see it. He knew Raymond had long-since desired the attention from her and wanted nothing more than to help nurse her back to health. 

(Raymond had suffered greatly while Elizabeth was asleep.)

As far as Elizabeth went, Dembe had assumed she just needed time. After all, she was very badly injured in her accident and, as Raymond is fond of telling him, Rome wasn’t built in a day. It is only natural that she should need time to recover. And who better to spend that time with than Raymond, the man who loves her to the ends of the Earth, who would do anything for her?

Yes, at the time, Dembe saw nothing wrong with how things were.

But it has clearly gone too far. 

Liz is nothing like the confident, assertive woman Dembe knew before her accident. What he sees now is a timid, uncertain woman who has only one thing left in life to rely on: Raymond. 

The level of reliance Dembe can see she has developed is distinctly unhealthy. 

Raymond and Elizabeth are always touching, their hands always in contact at the very least, their bodies in contact if at all possible. Liz constantly checks for Raymond, even if he’s right next to her at the table and hasn’t moved in the last hour, she checks for him, like she needs to be reassured of his presence. Raymond, for his part, is aware of her uncertainty, perhaps unconsciously, and, whenever he can, touches her arm or brushes her hair, giving her a smile, the touch clearly reassuring to them both. 

It is almost symbiotic in nature. Dembe is not sure he has ever seen anything quite like it.

It scares him.

Of course, Dembe would be thrilled for his brother to finally have such a close relationship with the woman he has adored for so long but the circumstances bother Dembe greatly. Liz seems far too dependent upon Raymond and Raymond seems to revel in her neediness. They clearly care greatly for one another and, while the relationship is completely consensual in its way and neither one is necessarily taking advantage of the other, the relationship still seems very unbalanced.

Dembe sighs, watching warily as Red crows in delight at winning their current game of dominoes while Lizzie giggles in that strange, voice-less way of hers. She shoves him playfully at his unsportsmanlike behavior and Red topples over dramatically, pulling her down with him onto the floor, cradling her against his chest all the while, pressing kisses into her hair as her eyes close, so blissfully content that it makes Dembe uncomfortable.

He must do something.

* * *

It takes two more days before Dembe can find time to talk to Raymond alone. 

In that time, Dembe never hears a single word from Liz. She doesn’t even speak to Raymond. She only writes in her notebook but often just for Dembe’s benefit. She doesn’t usually have to for Raymond. He seems to know what she’s thinking just by looking at her. The level of word-less communication that has developed between them is astounding, driven by a lack of speech from Liz, but the dependence permeating the relationship is not right.

Dembe is sure of it.

Liz has no motivation to get better and Raymond doesn’t want to push her.

It is a vicious cycle.

Liz looks at Raymond as though the sun rises and sets with him, the way Raymond has always looked at her. It would be ideal for them both but for the fact that Liz needs to get better.

Things cannot go on as they are. Dembe is determined to change things for them. 

(He loves them both too much to let this happen.)

“Raymond,” Dembe starts on his third evening there, sitting at the bar with Raymond, Liz asleep on the couch in the living room. 

(It is the first time Liz has been anything close to being away from Raymond. She will not go to their bedroom to sleep without him. Dembe was afraid there would not be an opportunity for them to talk at all unless Liz was in the bathroom which is never enough time to address the things he needs to address between them. But, tonight, Liz fell asleep on the couch and Dembe wasted no time in asking Raymond to the kitchen for a glass of scotch.

Tonight, Dembe was lucky.)

He gets straight to the point.

“Raymond, you must see that things are not right.”

Raymond frowns at him over the rim of his scotch glass. 

(He has not had scotch since Liz woke up.)

“What do you mean, Dembe?” he inquires quietly, sensing the seriousness of his tone, immediately concerned.

“I will tell you what I see between you and Elizabeth, as I always have, and I can only hope that you will hear me and make some change.” 

Raymond looks truly worried now and watches him intently as he speaks.

“Elizabeth has not been speaking as the doctor told you she must. She is depressed, Raymond, and she sees only you. She is so dependent that she cannot function without you. It is not healthy, Raymond. She is not healthy.”

But Raymond is already shaking his head and Dembe sighs. 

This battle will not be easily won.

“Dembe, that’s nonsense, you’ve only been here a few days, not even close to the month I’ve spent here with Lizzie. You can’t see how much she has improved and is still improving! It’s astonishing, she is truly remarkable. She’s been making great strides, believe me. She may not be speaking yet, that’s true, but that’s only because she’s not ready yet. You can’t rush something like this Dembe, she needs time.”

“It has been a month, Raymond. Do you remember what the doctor said?”

Raymond scowls at the reminder of Dr. Lauflin, whose only fault was telling Raymond things he didn’t want to hear. Dembe can sense Raymond is getting irritated with him now but he doesn’t care. He will persist until Raymond sees sense.

He must.

“The doctor said time is of the essence, Raymond,” Dembe continues. “If she does not try to speak, she will not regain her previous abilities.”

“Lizzie is _fine_ , Dembe,” he snaps, angry now. “I’m with her every second, don’t you think I would know if something was wrong?”

“That is my point exactly,” Dembe presses, ignoring Raymond’s frustrated huff. “She doesn’t leave your side, Raymond. Don’t tell me you’re not the least bit bothered by that.”

Raymond throws back the last of his scotch angrily, wincing at the burn in a way Dembe has not seen in a long time. He has been sober for nearly a year.

“Raymond,” Dembe murmurs, pushing his glass aside and placing a gentle hand on his brother’s arm, relieved when he doesn’t immediately shrug it off. “Raymond, I only want to help.”

Dembe sees Raymond sigh, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

“I know, Dembe,” he murmurs back. “I know. And you’re right. I think I’ve known deep down that something is wrong but I’ve been afraid to see it because we’ve been so happy here, Lizzie and I, in a way I never expected.”

He looks so sad that Dembe can’t help but hurt for his brother, his father. He does love Elizabeth so.

“And you can still be happy, Raymond,” Dembe says quietly. “But first Elizabeth must get better. She cannot be so dependent on you, for her own health. I know you only want what is best for her, brother, but to have that, she needs to be pushed. She must _want_ to get better. That is the first step.”

“Yes,” sighs Raymond, looking more tired than Dembe has seen him since he arrived. “Yes, you’re right, of course. But how do I begin?” He looks frightened and lost.

“Well, I know your interests could benefit from an appearance. I’ve been managing things while you’ve been gone, Raymond, but it’s been a long time. Your allies and enemies are getting skeptical. They think you are not coming back.”

“Maybe I’m not,” Raymond whispers, turning his gaze to Liz’s sleeping form on the couch. 

Oh, Raymond.

“Maybe not,” Dembe agrees, only for the night. “But there are more graceful ways to exit. Come back and make an appearance. The time is not right to retire yet.”

Raymond nods sadly. 

“There is a meeting not far from here tomorrow,” Dembe says gently. “Nothing dangerous, just a few low-life thugs that need a talking to. They’re getting ideas since you haven’t been around to…assert your influence. I was going to drop in on them on my way back to the city. Why don’t you go instead?”

“What about Lizzie?” Raymond says, tensing as he sees her roll over in her sleep, only relaxing once she has settled again. 

Dembe watches him with sad eyes. 

“I can spend the day with Elizabeth tomorrow,” he offers, truly wanting the time with Liz.

(He has come to love her as a sister through Raymond and he wants only the best for her. He would like to spend some time with her. Perhaps, with enough exposure, she will be almost as comfortable with him as she is with Raymond. Dembe thinks he would like that.)

Raymond nods, looking exhausted. 

“Of course,” he sighs. “There’s no one else I’d trust with her.”

Dembe nods, happy with what was said between them tonight.

“Go to bed then, Raymond,” he says softly. “Get some sleep. You need your rest for tomorrow. I will take care of Elizabeth. You will see her again by dinner time.”

Raymond nods wearily and gives Dembe a hug in thanks before shuffling to the couch and gently waking Elizabeth. Dembe watches in silence as he helps her up and supports most of her weight, walking her gently back to their bedroom as she struggles to keep her eyes open, trusting Raymond to get her to bed safely.

Dembe knows Raymond will hold her tightly tonight.

Tomorrow will be important.

* * *

Dembe wakes early to see Raymond off, giving him the details of the meeting and allowing Raymond to talk on and on about his and Liz’s routine, what Liz likes and doesn’t like, what Dembe should do for her, before he gently interrupts him. 

“…and Lizzie hates pancakes, Dembe, don’t forget, but waffles are alright. She’ll try to help you with the dishes but don’t let her, she doesn’t need to, I’ve told her a million times. We always play games in the living room in the afternoon. I’ve taught her poker and she taught me mancala and we play Monopoly when she’s feeling up to it but she’s a fiend at checkers, impossible to beat, it’s uncanny, really and –”

“Raymond…Trust me.”

“…of course. I’m sorry. I’ll see you tonight, Dembe.”

Red drives off and Dembe waits until the car is out of sight before heading back inside to start on breakfast for him and Liz. 

(No pancakes.)

Eventually, the smell of food wakes Liz and she comes wandering into the kitchen, smiling faintly to see Dembe cooking instead of Red.

She looks around, searching idly for Raymond and, when she doesn’t see him anywhere, she frowns, clearly confused. She turns on her heel suddenly and hurries back to her bedroom with a sense of purpose Dembe has not seen since he arrived. A minute later she is back, notebook and pen in hand. She leans against the counter and bends over her notebook, focusing intently on writing a message, large and clear, for Dembe. He turns away from the stove and waits patiently while she writes. 

When she’s finished, she turns the notebook around quickly and points to the message, her brow furrowed.

_Where is Red?_

Dembe nods understandingly, turning back to the stove and stirring the scrambled eggs in the pan. It makes sense that this is the first thing Liz would ask. Dembe doesn’t mind. 

“Raymond has gone to take care of some business,” Dembe responds brightly. “It is just a short meeting. He will be back by dinner time. I will be keeping you company while he is away. We can do whatever you’d like after breakfast, though I understand you are unbeatable at checkers, so perhaps we can –” 

Dembe glances over at Liz and abruptly stops talking.

She is standing there, eyes wide and flitting around the kitchen, with her arms tight around her waist, gasping for air. Her lips are making small, frantic movements that form Raymond’s name.

Oh no.

Dembe quickly turns off the burner under the eggs, shoving the hot pan off to the side carelessly, and hurries towards her. 

“Liz? What –”

But Elizabeth is backing away from him, panicking, starting to pant and struggle for air, taking in strangled gasps, her eyes wild.

Dembe has been through enough panic attacks himself and helped Raymond through so many of them that he knows what to do. He slowly advances toward Liz, who now has tears streaming down her face and is starting to make odd whimpering noises. Dembe waits until her back thumps into the wall before darting forward and wrapping his arms snugly around her middle, holding her arms down. He knows from experience that it is better to hold a person through a panic attack, keeping their arms close to their sides to prevent them from hurting themselves or other people in their fright. 

But it seems Dembe’s arms are not the ones that Liz wants.

She starts to struggle against him immediately, though Dembe has no trouble holding her. Raymond is the one she wants. Dembe imagines that his arms must feel like restraints to Liz, instead of protection, and his scent is probably unfamiliar and frightening to her, instead of comforting.

Poor Liz.

As Dembe slides to the floor holding Liz, trying in vain to comfort her, he realizes suddenly that Liz hasn’t been without Raymond since she awoke from her coma and, judging by the way she would be calling for him if she could speak, he is clearly her touchstone. 

She wasn’t ready for this.

What has he done?

With one arm around Liz, holding her securely to his chest as she trembles and cries, tugging uselessly at his arm, Dembe manages to extract his cell phone from his pocket and dial Raymond on the burner phone he gave him this morning. Raymond answers through the blue tooth connection in the car, obviously still on the road.

Hopefully not far.

“Hello, Dembe, I’m not there yet, I told you I’d call when I was, why –”

“Raymond,” Dembe mutters, barely managing to hold onto Liz as she flails her free arm at the mention of Raymond’s name, nearly hitting Dembe in the head. 

“What is it?” Raymond responds, suddenly urgent, put on guard by Dembe’s tone of voice and the sounds of a struggle. 

“Come back, brother, she needs you,” Dembe murmurs in Arabic, not wanting to further upset Liz by speaking in a language she would understand.

“I’ll be right there,” Raymond snaps, clearly distressed and Dembe hears the squealing of tires and the revving of an engine before Raymond hangs up.

Dembe tosses the phone carelessly to the floor, knowing he won’t need it anymore, and pulls Liz tighter to his chest, hoping that perhaps she’ll get some comfort from his heartbeat and breathing, and settles in to wait for Raymond. He keeps up a constant stream of quiet words that don’t seem to help at all.

“Elizabeth, Raymond is on his way, he’ll be here soon, don’t worry…I’m so sorry, please forgive me…Raymond is coming, Liz…”

They are on the floor for an agonizing thirty-four minutes. 

What feels like days later, Dembe hears the crunch of gravel as Raymond’s car speeds up the driveway. Liz hears the noise over her sniffles a second later and freezes in his arms, turning to face the door. When the car comes around the final bend in the driveway, speeding into view, Liz struggles harder than ever, pushing desperately away from Dembe and he waits for the squealing of brakes before he finally lets Liz go. 

(His arms are sore.)

Liz explodes out of his arms and stumbles to her feet, managing to make it to the door and wrench it open, tears falling anew, gasping. Dembe slowly gets to his feet, feeling a year older, and follows her to stand in the doorway, watching.

“Lizzie?!”

Dembe can hear Raymond’s hoarse cry through the car door. Dembe watches as Raymond climbs out of the car and leaves the door ajar as he hurries toward Liz, who is running towards him across the drive. They collide, Liz crashing into his arms in a tearful heap, the sheer force of it propelling Raymond back a few steps until his back hits the car.

“Oh, Lizzie, I’m so sorry…”

Dembe can hear Raymond’s words from the porch and watches as Liz wraps her arms in a chokehold around Raymond’s neck, desperate for contact, and presses her face into his shoulder, inhaling deeply. Dembe can see her trembling hands taking fistfuls of Raymond’s windbreaker, her shoulders shaking in broken, soundless sobs. 

Raymond’s arms are wrapped around her as well, a hand cradling the back of her head, clutching her tightly to him, seeming to gain just as much comfort from her touch as she does from his.

(For the life of him, Dembe never would have guessed.)

Raymond’s hands stroke her hair and rub her back as he murmurs soft words to her that Dembe doesn’t catch, alternating presses kisses to her face or hair.

(But never her lips, Dembe can’t help but notice. Curious.)

Dembe can see the moment when Liz finally starts to calm, her shoulders slowly lowering, the tension leaving her muscles, the trembles in her hands waning, her gasps slowing to a stop, relaxing in Raymond’s arms. 

(Dembe feels horrible. This is all his fault.)

Dembe hears Raymond’s next words to Liz, slightly louder now that the time for immediate comfort has passed.

“We should go inside, Lizzie, you’re not wearing a jacket and it’s chilly out.”

Dembe can see Liz tighten her hold around Raymond’s shoulders, scared to let go of him, shaking her head minutely against his neck. Dembe can see Raymond’s expression soften even further than he thought possible, unable to deny Elizabeth.

(Dembe supposes that much hasn’t changed.)

Raymond whispers something to Liz and, after a tentative nod from her, he leans down and puts his arms under her knees, gently scooping her into his arms. Liz is so thin that she is no burden to Raymond, sitting lightly in his arms, swaying gently as he beings his walk to the house, her swollen, red eyes already starting to close in exhaustion. When Raymond makes it to the porch, cradling Liz to his chest tenderly, Dembe opens his mouth to speak.

“Raymond, I –”

But Raymond just meets his eyes and shakes his head once in one quick motion. He is not unkind but his face brooks no argument. Dembe understands and instead lowers his head and opens the door for Raymond, following him into the house as he carries Liz right to the couch in the living room and sits, placing her on his lap, holding her close to him.

She clings to him, a few stray tears still leaking out of her eyes, as Raymond smooths her hair and straightens her hoodie, murmuring to her all the while. Dembe quickly becomes uncomfortable with the intimate scene and leaves them be, returning to the kitchen to clean up the sad remains of their disastrous breakfast. 

He hopes that Raymond and Elizabeth can forgive him.

* * *

By the time Dembe returns to the living room, Elizabeth has moved and is fast asleep with her head on Raymond’s lap, his fingers gently trailing through her hair. She must be exhausted. Dembe moves to sit in an armchair opposite his brother. Raymond, who had been staring dreamily at Liz’s face, looks up at him.

“Raymond, I’m so sorry,” Dembe says quietly, so as not to wake Liz, but Raymond is already shaking his head before Dembe has even finished.

“Don’t apologize,” he whispers. “I know you meant well.”

“I did,” confirms Dembe. “I never imagined…”

“I know, neither did I,” sighs Raymond, sounding drained. “But I should have known better than to move that fast. Should have gone by degrees, little by little, not all at once, she doesn’t…”

Raymond trails off, frowning, looking upset with himself. 

“You couldn’t have known, Raymond,” Dembe assures him. 

His gaze moves to Liz, curled up in the fetal position on the couch, taking up as little room as possible, huddling close to Raymond’s warmth, her hoodie so big that it looks like a blanket covering her. 

Dembe marvels once again at how much she’s changed, at the ways that trauma can alter people.

“You are the only thing she has,” Dembe murmurs to Raymond.

At the words, Raymond’s gaze fills with love as he looks at her.

(If Dembe didn’t know it already, he wouldn’t be able to mistake that look: Raymond would do anything for the woman lying in his lap.)

“I will leave by morning,” Dembe says, breaking the silence. Raymond looks up at that, frowning at him, and opens his mouth to protest, but Dembe speaks before he can. “She needs time to recover. She will not want me here for that.”

Raymond stares at him for a moment and then gives in, lowering his head in defeat. They both know he is right.

“But, Raymond,” Dembe continues and Raymond looks back up at him. “If you cannot leave her, please encourage her to speak. I want the best for her, as you do, and I would hear her voice again.”

Red nods sadly. “I would too.”

Dembe nods. After the events of today, he knows that Raymond now sees what is best for Liz and will stop at nothing to help her.

And if anyone can help Liz heal, it is Raymond.

* * *

Dembe leaves before breakfast and Red is sad to see him go. Despite everything that happened while he was here (and Red doesn’t blame him for a second), Red is always sorry to see his brother leave. He hopes he will visit again soon. 

But in the meantime, Red is on a mission. 

He decides to give Lizzie a few days to recuperate from what happened, the most stressful events she has experienced since she woke up. 

(Red never would have guessed that him leaving the house for a day, suddenly and without any notice, would have such an effect on Lizzie. He never would have gone if he had known he would come back to a hyperventilating Lizzie, desperate for his touch. He aches whenever he remembers her shaking form stumbling off the porch and into his arms, tears blurring her vision, and he knows he’ll never forget the whimpering noises she made. 

He also knows he’ll never forgive himself.)

They spend a few comfortable days returning to their previous routines of games and reading and movies and Red wants it to last a lifetime. He knows now that things must change for them. He will be forever grateful to Dembe for showing him what he was purposefully ignoring, helping him to see how he could best help Lizzie. He now knows that Lizzie must get better and he must push her to get there but that doesn’t mean he is looking forward to it. 

Red can see how comfortable and content Lizzie is here with him and Red is afraid she will resent his sudden urge to change things.

(Red gets the feeling that Lizzie could live happily here with him for a long time and that thought feels him with just as much worry as it does all-encompassing happiness. It is a strange combination.)

But if Lizzie resents him for pushing her, for wanting her to get better when she doesn’t want to herself, then he wants to cherish these last few days of complete and utter happiness he has with her. He has felt a joy he has known precious little of in his life while living here with Lizzie and he hopes, whatever happens, that she can understand just how important that is to him.

(How much he loves her.)

He holds her even more tightly than usual at night, reveling in the feel of her body curled snugly around his, content and warm and wanting him, knowing it may very well be the last time.

(He wonders if she will break him.

He thinks she may.)

* * *

They are sitting together at the bar eating a light lunch when Red decides it is time. It’s been three days and there is no point in avoiding it any longer. It won’t help either of them in the long run.

(As much as he wishes he could ignore their problems forever, he owes it to Lizzie to speak up. He can only hope she will understand.)

He takes one last longing look at Lizzie, looking beautiful in the bright, midday sunlight shining in through the window and reflecting off the lake, her dark hair framing her face and her blue eyes sparkling with happiness as she picks all the pieces of cantaloupe out of the mixed fruit Red has prepared for them. 

(Red picks out all the watermelon and tries not to take it as a sign from the cosmos that they are meant to be together just because they don’t eat each other’s favorite fruit. Because that would be stupid.

Stupid, stupid heart.)

He’ll miss this so much.

“Lizzie?”

She looks up, her eyes curious, her notebook abandoned to one side while they’re eating, raising her eyebrows in her traditional gesture of acknowledgment. Red falters under her intense gaze, quickly eating a piece of pineapple to stall.

Lizzie waits patiently, popping a few grapes into her mouth, and watches him.

“Do you ever…” Red winces and then decides to just bite the bullet and get it over with. “Would you ever consider…trying to speak again?”

Lizzie looks at him oddly for a moment and then her face folds into a delicate frown, clearly confused. She reaches for her notebook which Red immediately takes as a bad sign. Anything that she can’t communicate to him through a look or a touch is surely not good news. 

He watches apprehensively as she picks up her pen but she only spends a second writing before she is turning the notebook around to face him. 

(He isn’t ready.)

It takes him a moment to spot the one word she’s written in her bright red pen, small and neat in the center of the page. 

_Why?_

Red’s heart shatters in that instant, reading that one word that says everything and nothing all at the same time. 

(He feels so desperately sad for her.)

He knows in that moment that Lizzie truly has no desire to ever speak again, she would be content to live in silence for the rest of her hopefully very long life and oh, how did things go so wrong? 

It is as he feared. He will have to force her if he wants her to get better. And he does want her to get better. He won’t be happy until she is healthy. Until she is happy.

(It’s been that way for a long time.)

“Lizzie,” he starts, wanting to be gentle but firm at the same time. “Lizzie, things can’t go on as they have been,” she blinks at that, taken aback by his unexpected statement. He plows forward, knowing that there’s no going back now. “You need to speak again because…well, won’t you want to talk to other people at some point?”

Red feels his stomach drop as he sees tears gather in Lizzie’s eyes, sees the hurt blossom across her face, and he realizes how that sounded, so wrong. It sounded like he is tiring of her, wanting to pass her off to someone else, get rid of her. 

(As if he could _ever_ tire of her.)

“Lizzie, no, that’s not what I meant,” he hurries to tell her, quickly standing and rounding the bar to her side, pulling her up off her stool and into his arms. She goes willingly enough but he can feel her confusion and residual hurt making her tense and stiff in his arms. “Lizzie, I just mean that writing down everything you want to say isn’t a good way to go about life, you need to speak, sweetheart, don’t you miss talking? I mean…”

He prattles on and on but no he’s not making it better, he’s making it worse, he can feel it in her body, her shoulders shaking as she starts to cry, scared and confused at what must seem to her like a sudden and unwelcome turn of events. She pushes back from him, gentle but firm, staying within the circle of his arms but putting some distance between them. She looks at him, frowning, tears still spilling gently from her eyes, trying to ask all the questions she can’t say.

(He tries to answer her.)

“Lizzie, I miss your voice,” he whispers, desperate to make her understand.

He sees realization dawn in her eyes, sees the weight of it hit her all at once, sees her remember how things used to be before her accident, how she’s let herself go, how she settled for comfort and ease instead of hard work and a challenge like she once would have, how she fell victim to her depression and everything she’s been blocking out. He sees her realize what it will take to do what Red is asking and she is shaking her head, breaking free from his arms and running from him, rushing to their room. 

Red lets her go, forcing himself not to cling, feeling desperately miserable as he hears the bedroom door shut between them for the first time since they’ve arrived.

(It hurts even more than he imagined.)

* * *

Liz lies on her bed in the dark, curled up on her side, her tears long since dried on her face, thinking.

It has been hours since she ran and left Red standing in the kitchen, feeling as though she left a piece of herself out there with him, and he hasn’t knocked on the door. She’s glad. She needed the time to herself.

She just couldn’t believe that Red was suggesting, completely out of the blue, that she speak. She couldn’t understand where he was coming from, why he would be saying this. She thought things had been wonderful. She was happy here, with him, reading and eating and cuddling together, it was comfortable and happy and perfect and why, oh why, did he want to ruin that?

(She thought he loved her as much as she loves him.)

But then he had said it, the thing that made it all click, that one sentence.

_“Lizzie, I miss your voice.”_

Thinking of it again, alone here in bed, makes a few more tears slip unbidden down her face. She realized in that instant how far she has fallen, how much she let herself go. She had fallen hard into a depression, a shadow of who she used to be, using the excuse of her accident to justify her lack of motivation for anything other than what she was strictly comfortable with: Red.

(She can’t believe it.)

And she’s spent the last few hours here, alone for the first time in a long time, thinking and, now that she’s calmed down, she knows that Red only wants what’s best for her. Of course. He wants her to get better and he wants her to want that too. And how can she be mad at him for taking care of her, like he’s always done? He wants to help her and, going forward, she’s going to need all the help she can get.

She feels a surge of resolve at the thought and pushes herself up into a sitting position in bed, sniffing weakly and dragging a tattered hoodie sleeve over her eyes. 

She knows what she has to do.

* * *

Red sits in the living room in the dark, looking out the window at the surface of the lake, black in the night sky, holding a tumbler of scotch. When he had a drink with Dembe, his first glass in a long while, it had been so distasteful to him. He had thought that maybe, just maybe, he had lost his taste for it.

(He’d never have though it possible a year ago but if anyone could cure him of his mild but persistent alcoholism, it makes sense that it would be Lizzie.)

But the second he heard the bedroom door slam shut behind her, sounding an awful lot like finality, he was immediately craving the burn and scorch of alcohol, feeling that old urge to drown his sorrows. 

(It seems that his fights with Lizzie are directly related to his drinking habits. He can’t say he’s surprised.)

So here he sits, more miserable than he’s been in a long time, nursing his scotch and wondering what to do without Lizzie here with him. 

(The situation is horribly unfamiliar.

Maybe he’s not the only one who’s developed a dependency.)

He’s just wondering dejectedly whether he should throw together some dinner (not for him of course, he can’t stomach anything but alcohol at the moment, but Lizzie will surely be hungry soon), when he hears something behind him he didn’t think he’d ever hear again. 

“Red.” 

_Lizzie._

He jumps at the shock of hearing another voice in the house besides his own, so hoarse and weak, and quickly stands, whirling around to see Lizzie standing there, tears dried on her face and new ones already leaking from her eyes, her hair a tangled mess, her hoodie twisted around her torso.

She’s so beautiful. 

“Lizzie,” he gasps, sounding completely gutted.

They stare at one another for a moment and then, by some indistinguishable sign, they move at the same time, rushing across the room to one another, colliding in the middle in a hug that almost hurts because it feels so good. 

Red presses a desperate kiss into her hair and he hears himself murmuring to her.

“That was so wonderful, Lizzie, I’m so proud of you, you did so well –” 

And Liz is crying and hiccupping into his shoulder, wetting the collar of his shirt and he couldn’t be gladder. He savors the feel of her in his arms, something he was afraid he would never feel again, and then gently guides them to the couch where they sit without releasing each other. It takes a few moments but Lizzie finally calms enough to pull gently away from him, taking his hand instead. She gives a little sigh, looking worn out and exhausted, the same way Red feels, but he can tell there is something she wants to say before she can rest. 

Liz looks into his eyes and raises a hand to clearly mime writing in her notebook, much like she did upon waking from her coma. Red nods hurriedly, squeezing her hand and then letting it go to rush to the kitchen and retrieve it from where she left it after their fight. 

He hurries back and they link hands again automatically. Instinctively. Liz turns to a fresh page, taking a moment to smooth her hand over it in a calming manner before slowly writing one simple sentence and turning the notebook around to show him.

_You’ll help me?_

The innocent request, combined with the beautiful vulnerability and complete trust in Lizzie’s eyes, hits Red like a punch to the gut. 

As if he would abandon her now.

(Never.)

“Oh, Lizzie, sweetheart, of course I’ll help you,” he gasps, pulling her desperately into his arms as the notebook and pen fall to the floor abandoned and she snuggles into him. 

They spend a long time there, huddled together on the couch, comforting each other, making an unspoken, mutual decision to start in the morning. Tonight, Red just wants to hold her. He knows that there are hard times ahead of them, but he is comforted by the fact that he and Lizzie are now on the same page, both committed to getting her better. At least they’re in this together. 

Because when they work together, they can accomplish anything. 

Lizzie will speak again.


End file.
